Partial Eclipse
by rtwofan
Summary: 6 Yrs PostSeas1 After finding out that they're brothers, Peter and amnesiac Sylar have worked together for three years to rescue their kind from captive mutant laws. But after they cross paths with Claire again, the worst threat yet arrives. COMPLETE
1. Gabriel and The Messenger

**Prologue**

"**Gabriel the Messenger"**

No one saw a man in a black cloak swoop down from the sky and land skidding in the Arizona dust.

No one except for the resident of 1234 Nowhere Lane. The tiny shack in the middle of the desert was more than 'off the beaten path'. Not a single police station, street, or rest stop within a fifty mile radius. Sylar liked it that way, knew it was the safest possible thing he could do. Of course, it's not like he had anything but instinct to tell him what was secure or not. Sylar's memory only went back three years.

Three years after November 8th, 2006.

Today, Sylar poked a single birthday candle into a general store Little Debbie cake. Having no knowledge of his age, or birthday, he simply used the anniversary of his awakening as a marker. Even trying to roughly guesstimate his age was futile. Clean shaven and shock haired, he was 28. With the thick stubble and bags under his eyes, like today, he could pass for 40.

His biggest theory was that he actually only had three years under his belt, and escaped from a genetic engineering factory. Perhaps he'd just watched _The Island_ too many times, one of the few movies he owned, but Sylar saw a lot of proof. Waking up in the sewers, having no idea who he was or where he'd come from, his English at a third grade level. Then, he soon discovered that the police were apparently after him too, for some odd reason. Perhaps to take him back to the lab.

Mostly, the hypothesis blossomed when he started discovering that he was…special.

Sylar had_ real_ English under his belt in one day. He simply leafed through a manual of the language at his local library, and just remembered everything he read. Super memory, which he felt an unhumorous irony in. Amnesiac Rain Man.

_Then, _over the course of the next year, Sylar began moving things without touching them whenever his emotions flared up. These manifestations kept coming, until the man was aware of over half a dozen abilities. Clearly, it made him unique.

Until that one killjoy fell out of the sky with such ease and gracefulness, that Sylar's stomach churned in hatred already.

The trechcoated man, who looked like he was barely past teenagehood, actually, sauntered over to the front door of the shack. Haughtiness and the epitome of cool all wrapped up in one moseying young man.

Sylar set down his makeshift birthday cake, glaring through the grimy, broken, kitchen window. As the visitor approached, Sylar got a better view, evoking a smirk to curl on his lips. Though the visitor was a fancy flyer, he was six inches shorter than Sylar himself, and thin as a rail. The raven preacher's coat tried to mask it by leaving some things to the imagination, but the pair of brown eyes that investigated it from inside the house could see how things work.

No knocking. Sylar jumped a little when he heard the front door slam open, dust dirtying the tattered "Welcome!" mat even more.

"Sylar!" hollered the stranger, hands on his hips. The other man hid out in his kitchen, eyes fixed on the steel refrigerator. A reflection of the low sun, specifically a fractional solar eclipse today, gleamed on the front.

Sylar came to his senses and shuffled around, looking for some kind of blunt object to ward off the outsider. A shovel rusted in the corner, and Sylar gripped the handle between his large fists. Though the thoughts in the back of his mind were violent, his actions could never reflect that. Sylar was a coward, and he already knew that the shovel wouldn't get a drop of blood on it.

"I know you're in here," continued the invader, starting to pace the front 'room'. A thoughtful crease slashed between two dark, but well-groomed eyebrows. Sylar's dislike flamed even more, thinking of his own brows, ridiculously thick and black.

The man in the coat crossed his arms over his chest and let out a melodramatic sigh. He flicked his wrist, and an empty juice glass on the wooden coffee table flew across the room.

"No use hiding anymore," he announced bluntly. "You're right in front of me, I know it. And thanks for giving me that power back, by the way. It hasn't been very fun living without your telekinesis."

Curiosity got the best of him. Sylar, still armed with the shovel that's head was so rusty it threatened to fall right off the handle, stepped out of his hiding place. His visitor smirked triumphantly.

"What kept you back there? Usually you're balls out trying to kill me."

Frowning, Sylar held onto the wood even more tightly. Though he already felt a streak of distaste for the outsider, Sylar still didn't actually have the nerve to_ really_ hurt anyone.

"Kill you? I don't know you," he replied emotionlessly.

His bewilderment was met with a scoff. "Don't _know _me? The same Peter Petrelli you tried to rip the skull off of? Nice. But I'm up for a chat, if that's what you really want."

"Who _are_ you?" demanded Sylar abruptly, standing to his full height and towering over the other man. "What are you doing here? And how can you _fly?_" But though the anger was there, his voice still cracked on the high notes. He also vaguely recognized Peter's last name as the same as the president's, but made no inquiry about it. Petrelli may have been a common name for all he knew.

Peter cocked his head a bit, staring at the shack's native with a shifting expression. Then, it settled into bafflement.

"You're telling the truth," he whispered, for once not the mighty rogue. "You really don't remember anything, do you, Sylar?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Well, how do _you _know it? You just said you had no memory," Peter pointed out wisely.

Sylar rubbed his left wrist involuntarily, right above his black-banded watch. It was almost embedded onto his skin; he never took it off. That watch was the only sign of identity he knew of. When Sylar awoke in the sewers, he carried no ID, money, anything. The only thing he noticed was this stupid, broken watch, and in a twisted way, he related to it. He was broken too, missing a chunk of himself, a piece of his life. Or, if his genetic experiment theory was correct, a piece of his humanity.

On the watch face read the word "Sylar," and the amnesiac thought it was as good a name as any to go by.

He repeated as much to Peter, and then expected a reply for his question in return. The invader did not grant it.

"So you don't remember me, Kirby Plaza, anything?"

"Who's Kirby?"

Peter rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Kirby Plaza is the name of a_ place_. The place where you tried to blow up New York."

Sylar almost laughed. In fact, he did. It started as a low chuckle in the base of this throat, then cresendoed into full belts of amusement. Peter stared on, now the indignant one.

"What's so funny about that?" he questioned bitterly.

"You're kidding. You actually expect me to believe that?" Sylar scoffed. "I'm not a _murderer. _And even if I was, what possible motivation would I have for killing five million people? "

Now Peter's face turned scornful. "If only you knew."

Sylar's stomach dropped like a lead ball, before remembering that Peter was clearly a rival from his past, and could totally take advantage of him. The reality _could _be that Peterwas the serial killer, and Sylar the victim on the run.

"What did you mean by…you missed my telekinesis?" The cogwheels in his brain connected the dots to reveal an outline of empathy. "You can do what I can do?"

Almost reluctantly, Peter nodded. "Yeah, permanently. I had your abilities until three years ago, when I exploded. I had to start from scratch after that."

"Exploded?" Sylar arched an eyebrow and finally set down his shovel, sensing calm in his new acquaintance's voice. Perhaps, rather then a brawl starter, Peter could be a fountain of knowledge.

"Long story," Peter replied, rocking back on his heels. "You got time?"

Sylar's curiosity killed the cat again.

"Very well," he muttered, gesturing to one of the raggedy western chairs. "Start talking."

xxx

"You're my…brother?"

"Yeah, I wasn't exactly smiling when I heard about it, either," Peter grumbled back, running a hand over his messy crew cut.

Sylar took a long swig of tea to drown the lump in his throat. "Er…how…how did you find out?"

"Buddy of yours; Mohinder Suresh," Peter drawled, and from his tone, Sylar could suspect that the term 'buddy' was used in _high_ sarcasm. "He has both our DNA samples. About a year ago, he stumbled across a similarity between them. After some research and experiments, it all fit."

"Do you know my age or my name, maybe?" Sylar leaned forward, trailing off.

"Nothin'. I'm twenty-nine, if that helps," Peter shrugged. "And you're probably younger." He snorted a little. "Funny. I've always been the _little_ brother to Nathan."

"Nathan…" Sylar recalled Peter's last name, this time with more curiosity. "…Petrelli? So you'rerelated to the president_?_"

Peter nodded grimly. "I was his brother for twenty-seven years. And he's like _us_ too, the filthy traitor."

"What exactly is one of us?" Sylar squinted, his minor vision problem becoming more evident.

"Mutants. The same people he's been selling out," snarked Peter matter-of-factly. "He was good for a while, but I think America's '_Nathan Petrelli: The Hero That Saved New York!_' act went to his head. Ever since he got into the White House…" Peter halted himself before delving into the rant resting on the tip of his tongue.

Sylar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Peter didn't answer his question at all. "But _why_ is he so bad? There isn't exactly much news, way out here."

Peter nearly growled. "The _laws. _Against people with _powers._ We're not allowed to 'breed', and now they're talking about starting a branding method. Then after that, we'll be rounded up like animals, experimented on…God only knows what."

"There are more of us?" Sylar's eyes widened. Peter shook his head in disbelief.

"You really don't get out much, do you?"

Sylar ignored him. "Are we some sort of experiment? Test tube creations they bred to have powers?"

"More like natural selection's bitch, actually," Peter answered, scoffing. "Mohinder says it's all evolution."

Peter's newfound brother sat back in the chair, eyes glazing over somewhat. All this time, he'd thought he was so _right _on all his assumptions. But in reality, Sylar had no more idea who he was then three years ago when he woke up in a storm drain. The only constant was the ticking of his broken watch, always moving, but never budging from seven minutes to midnight.

"So what are you doing out here, talking to me?" asked Sylar simply, for the umpteenth time. "Aren't we supposed to be 'enemies' or something?"

Peter shrugged, and the harsh lines on his face softened. For a moment, Sylar wondered if this was his brother's _real _personality poking through, and the snark was just a mask, a defense mechanism. Peter'd already admitted that he wasn't expecting tea and cookies. Best to walk into enemy territories with your big guns forward.

"I wanted to tell you about…the brother thing." A wave of loneliness and confusion saturated him for a spilt second. "See if you knew anything about our parents, or how this happened. I guess it's kinda stupid, huh? Going to someone who I thought was gonna kill me." A quirky smile came to his lips. "This must be how Claire felt."

Sylar took notice of the special glint in Peter's brown eyes and shyly asked, "Claire?"

"This sweet kid…Nathan's daughter, so I thought she was my niece for a couple years, but…" He paused, and small sigh came over him. "She's not anymore."

Peter's aura went from dreamy to serious in an instant. "There _is _something else I want to talk to you about, though. I have no idea _what _I'm thinking and this was all Hiro's idea…but seeing as this is going better then I thought it would, I figure I'll offer it up to you."

Sylar frowned. "Hiro?"

"You don't remember Hiro Nakamura?"

"Er…no…"

"Good; it's probably better you don't." Peter grimaced slightly, but his mouth was in a small smirk. "Hiro and I know that Nathan's gonna get out of hand with these laws. Soon, people like us will be locked up all across the country, maybe even the _world_. People are already afraid of us and what they don't understand, and they'll fight as hard as they can to keep us at bay. So me and Hiro are starting to get some people together. When all hell breaks lose in a few months, we'll be there to help our kind. But we're gonna need the most powerful ones we can find, and though I'm not too excited about asking you to join us…you still have a ton of abilities…"

"You want me to," Sylar paused, weighing the monologue he just heard, "help you?"

Peter took a deep breath. "Yeah."

Sylar rubbed the farmer's tan on his arms, bronzed from the desert sun. "I don't know. I've never fought before. I've never even really met anyone…"

"What else are you gonna do?" Peter suddenly snapped. "Sit out here and rot in this cabin? You should be out there _doing_ something. Don't you want to find some way to get back on fate's good side? "

Sylar scooted his chair back a tad off the other man's outburst. "And what would be in it for you?" He peered apprehensively at Peter. Judging from his brothers sharp gaze and dark clothing, Sylar's suspicions were already riled.

The energy seemed to leave Peter's wiry frame all at once. "I never really got to save the world," he finally confessed softly. "I tried, but Nathan showed up and saved the day and…I thought I knew what I was meant for, but when that happened, I was right back to where I started."

Sylar frowned and remained mute for a short while. "At least you have a purpose to _find_."

Peter's eyes flitted up and gazed back with intensity. "You can have one too, if you want. You had to be given a clean slate for some reason."

None of Peter's other attempted persuasions stirred Sylar quite like this one. He _had _been given a second chance at life. What else was it for, but to turn the murderer, or whatever he was in the past, into a savior? And it's not like he would be rescuing damsels by roasting in a shack in the middle of nowhere till the end of his days…

"I'm in."

xxx


	2. False Banners

**Chapter One**

"**Judges"**

**Three Years Later**

The wall of the employee lounge at Washington DC's FBI headquarters may as well have been one big trophy. Golden plates and wooden plaques were more visible then the cheap wallpaper and the giant "Employee of the Month" slab rested center stage.

A young woman reached out and ran her fingertips over the latest engravement: _March 2013: Mary Whetsill._

Technically, there was no such person, and _technically, _the honor went to the woman standing before the plaque. But that plate could never say _Claire Bennet, _because there was no Claire Bennet. She'd been erased four years ago along with everything else in that little girl's life.

Not a girl anymore, though. A woman. A woman named Mary Whetsill that worked security in the FBI, and was the government's most dirty laundry.

She could see her reflection in the shiny metal. Same face and grey-green eyes, but long gone were the honey curls. Claire's hair was straight and chestnut now, an extra precaution to mask her individuality.

Though Claire worked hard, she suspected the real reason behind her latest achievement was because her indestructibility saved the FBI thousands. Rather then designing all new defense gear, they just threw Claire out in the field, let her do the dangerous work, and patch her up when she got back to OPs. If she could talk to Zach, he'd probably nickname her the FBI's Energizer Bunny.

The whole thing was hideously cruel at face value, but according to Nathan, it was the only way to keep her safe. If she was a secret weapon, then she would be under utmost protection. Erased. Deleted. Washed from the system. Or, when concerning the mutant database, never added at all.

To stay safe from the government, she was forced to join it.

Claire checked the shatterproof watch that was nearly as indestructible as her, and saw that her break time was nearly up. Sighing, she pushed past the lounge's door and padded down the sterile hallway, towards the security booth.

As she turned a corner to enter the Security and Defense wing, a fellow agent roughly slammed into her, too distracted by what he was doing to even apologize. The offender and his partner spoke in a rapid conversation concerning the Asian man they were hauling down the corridor.

"Where'd the sword get sent, Quinn?"

"Back to its owner in Vegas."

"Has he been restrained yet?"

"Yessir. We injected him as soon as he was down."

"Well done."

They went down another hall, slipping out of Claire's sight. She peered after her co-workers, unnoticed, probably picking up pieces that weren't for her ears. It was a habit she couldn't shake, however. It was blatant that the poor man was a mutant, someone _like her _that they'd recently bagged. She rubbed the underside of her wrist, shuddering, before remembering her place in all of this.

Mary Whetsill went to the security booth in silence.

xxx

A couple of the burlier guys in the FBI entered the interrogation room with Ebbot, Quinn, and the unconscious metahuman they schlepped in. Rarely was their assistance needed, since most prisoners were so freaked that they sang like canaries, but there was the occasional oddity...

Hiro Nakamura was one such find.

There was nothing he could do about the authorities figuring out his identity. When your mutant ID was slapped right on you, it was hard to charade around anymore. His sword was confiscated as well, so he was completely unarmed. If that wasn't enough, Hiro couldn't teleport out or stop time, either, thanks to the lovely new shoot-em-up: Temporary Restraining Serum. The injection was basically a quick fix of curare, something a Canadian scientist concocted a few months back.

But Hiro still had his dignity and wit.

Ebbot waved the info in front of Hiro's nose as soon as the Asian man awoke. "Hiro Nakamura, born in Japan. Ability to bend time and space." He looked up and grinned a little, but the smile didn't meet his eyes. "How cool."

The agent's gaze scanned across the paper a little more, overlooking all the minor details, until he came to the list of charges.

"Ah. Theft of an ancient artifact from a Daniel Linderman. Various homicides, other robberies throughout the country, break-ins, kidnappings..." Ebbot finally cocked his head at Hiro and leaned against the water cooler. "Damn, kid. That's one bad rap sheet. But that's not what we're here for today…"

Hiro sat in silence, almond eyes serene.

"Where is the headquarters for your underground organization? The one that keeps causing all this trouble?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," Hiro declared, boring holes into the cinderblock wall.

"Mmm-hmm," replied his interrogator, not absorbing the words at all. "Looks like you're gonna be difficult. Boys?" He shot pointed looks at the security thugs. "Give Nakamura some loose lips."

The second punch was the most painful to Hiro's round face, and they all sort of numbed him after that. When Hiro had actual marks to his face, Quinn called off the brutes.

"Now," Ebbot continued nonchalantly. "Where are the rest of your little treasonous friends?"

Hiro's eyes glinted with confidence. "No matter how much you hit me, I will not tell anything."

Ebbot smirked mischievously, already hailing over the guards again. "That's what they all say."

xxx

"Hey, Whetsill," grinned Chester from his position by the wall of televisions in HQ. Claire took a second too long to recognize that he was talking to her. She quickly recovered with a wave.

"Hi. Anything interesting?" She gestured to the black and white screens, a bird's eye view from all of the security cameras. Her friend shrugged back.

"Nah. Caught Luke picking his nose, but nothing else today. What about you?"

Claire was stoic. "I saw them taking another branded guy in."

Chester nodded approvingly. "Serves the freaks right." He caught the subtle forlorn in Claire's eyes and immediately regretted his statement. "Oh…sorry…I-I forgot that you…"

"It's cool," she said shortly. Everyone knew _what_ she was, but no one really recognized her as "one of them." It was almost like you had to be tagged to be a freak in the eyes of the law.

"Well, you're not like them anyway," Chester added, retracing his steps. "I mean, you're with the good guys, so it really doesn't matter what your DNA looks like."

Claire absently wondered if he was attempting to hit on her, but was too distracted with chewing over 'the good guys.' It all had to do with point of view, an outlook that she, unlike her co-workers, could not channel.

Several other agents bustled around on the other side of the room, while Chester sat, lonely and bored, in the corner. He was the newb of the staff, not much fresher than Claire herself, so he got stuck with the crappy job.

One some days, though, it had the tendency to be fun.

"Mary, check this out," he whispered to Claire, pointing to a screen on the second row. "Wicked trenchcoat. I wonder if we get to wear those soon."

Claire frowned and peered at what he was talking about, not finding it wicked at all.

"I don't think that's one of us, Chester," she told him slowly, watching a raven haired man in a preacher's jacket make haste through the corridors. The two young agents followed his path through several different TVs before the invader incapacitated three guards on screen #35.

"Holy lord," Chester groaned.

"Breach!" Claire cried back to her coworkers. "I'm going after him!"

Her warning started a wildfire in the HQ room. Everyone stood up from their chairs all at once and grabbed the nearest phone or walkee talkie. Claire dove under the table and reached into a metal box, feeling the cool hilt of her pistol slide between her fingers.

As Claire loaded her gun, Chester pushed himself on his rolling chair to a map system on the computer.

"According to here, that camera is on…level three, near the Mutant Detainment and Interrogation wing."

"Then I'm off," Claire breathed, trying to keep the instructions to memory. She briskly sprinted out the front door before she could hear Chester call:

"Try not to eat any metal this time, Whetsill!"

xxx

Hiro tried not to get in the habit of _expecting _to be saved, per se, but he still retained that cocky feeling in his gut. And lo and behold, instinct prevailed once again. Just as he was about to be hit into unconsciousness once again, all chaos broke loose for his captors.

Bodies flew all across the room, banging into walls, knocking over desks, until all four men were either dead or close to it. Hiro's savior tsked like it was nothing, and removed the bindings on his friend.

"I think you overdid it," Hiro flatly remarked, looking around at the carnage.

"I think they did too," the rescuer responded darkly, indicating Hiro's swollen face.

"I will heal. Now, the priority is my sword."

"Right. It's gotta be around here somewhere. C'mon…"

They blew through the heavy door, invisible, but not yet safe. Because five hundred feet away, a ruddy-faced kid named Chester saw it all on camera.

"Mary, he's got the latest inmate and they've just turned _invisible_," he screeched into the Walkee Talkie. "I'm sending someone over there with infrared, okay?"

Claire acknowledged his message and quickly pocketed her own Walkee Talkie. The back-up team met up with her at an intersection, and she explained to them what Chester just explained.

Dora Williams, an intern in the Tech wing, ran up to Claire. The college student thrust a pair of what looked to be binoculars in Claire's hand, before slumping up against a nearby wall in exhaustion.

Claire stared at the panting girl in slight worry, but the head of the backup squad screamed that "They're getting away!" and snapped her out of her reverie.

She kept the infrared binoculars glued to her eyes as the group clambered throughout the building. Alarms had been ringing for a while now, though Claire was not positive when they started. Everything had happened so fast already, and she kind of wondered when it would be done. REALLY done.

They ended up finding their target not far from the captive's holding room. Through Claire's infrared camera, she could see that one had his arms around the other, passing on his invisibility. She yelled out at them, but they made no move to stop off the crude shout.

This was the part she hated most about the job. Claire was a kind hearted cheerleader, not a gun wielding cop. In her three years at the FBI, she was fortunate enough never to have had to take someone's life. God, why couldn't they have just given her a tranquilizer gun?

Oh, right. Because mutants were expendable, that's why.

"Halt or I'll shoot!" she threatened again, and another squad of security detail flooded the hall from the other side. The two criminals were trapped, but still unseen. Claire was the only one able to view what she was actually aiming at.

This made things much more complicated. Though the teams could block off any exits, their weapons were useless. They would never risk misfiring and hitting one of their own on the other side of the hall. It was up to Claire now, and she had a dirty feeling in her heart that today was the day she would become a killer.

The two bad guys were slick, but apparently not of one mindset. While the rescuer stopped in his tracks, the original prisoner kept running forward until he shimmered into visibility and skidded into the backup team. Hiro was immediately restrained and Claire crept forward until the front of her gun was pressed between the trechcoated man's shoulder blades.

"Put your hands up!" she ordered, and to her surprise, he did what he heeded her instructions.

"Now slowly turn around. Go visible again," she continued, cold metal still digging into black cashmere.

What happened next was something none of them could have expected. The man flowed into perception as told, and he began to curve towards Claire. But before she could look at his face, she was suddenly pressed against his front with her own gun to her head.

The dark-haired man's slender index finger rested naturally on the trigger, firmly but breezily holding up the black revolver to Claire's temple. His other arm crossed the front of her, starting at her hip, going through the valley between her breasts, and up to her shoulder, pinning her to him.

"Give me Hiro, or she's dead!" he shouted, spinning Claire to face both sides of her colleagues.

For the first time in six years, she was honest to God scared for her life. Could she _really _survive her brains being splattered onto the wall beside her? It was the single life/death test she hadn't attempted yet. Sure, a tree branch to the brain was one thing, but the force of a 9mm…

"Let go of Agent Whetsill, or _we'll _shoot!" retaliated the commander. Over twenty guns must have been pointed at the pair in the middle of the hallway.

"And risk her getting killed?" retorted the kidnapper doubtfully, nearly choking Claire with his fervor.

"Please," she found herself begging like a teenager again, shaking uncontrollably in her captor's arms. "Please don't do this."

"And _why_ should I spare one of you?" he seethed in her ear, lips brushing against her jaw. It should have been terrifying…

…but Claire's spirit instead felt elated.

She recognized that voice. Hadn't heard it in four years, but those half-raspy half-youthful tones would be burned in her mind forever. The only question was: how in Hadeshad he ended up like this?

"Peter?" she whispered, clutching the arm that held her more out of affection than defiance. His grip loosened a little, and he frowned down at her.

"_What_?"

"Peter," she squeaked, placing her hand over the one he used to clutch her shoulder. "It's me."

He blew it off. He didn't know any girls named Whetsill with brown hair…most likely. He _had _been around the block a few times too many in the last couple years.

"You have to the count of three," warned Claire's boss. "Release her, now!"

Peter made no move to comply, but already a plan started to take shape in his head. No one noticed the furtive wink he gave Hiro, who looked confused, but winked back.

"One…two…"

BANG! The ear-splitting sound of Claire's pistol erupted throughout, making everyone in the room jump except for Peter and Claire. Peter knew it was coming, and Claire…well, Claire was a little bit worse for wear at the moment.

On the wall beside them was a mess of blood and tissue. Claire had a nasty wound that just grazed the top of her head and a few shards of molten metal in her skull to prove it. She lay limp in Peter's arms, lifeless head lolling on his shoulder, and that's when he finally saw her face.

"Claire," he choked. She was no longer a petite blonde girl; a shapely brunette _woman_ now, and bleeding from her temple, but it was still his Claire Bennet. God, what was she doing, working here? And she was trying to tell him to stop, but he wouldn't listen…

The FBI finally regained their senses and started open firing. Peter blocked most of the bullets with a mental shield, but felt a couple pangs in his shoulders and thigh in reward for lack of a focused mind.

"HIRO!!" he screamed in part pain, part desperation. Peter outstretched his hand and pulled it back, sending Hiro Nakamura sliding across the floor towards him like a rollback Hot Wheels car. Once his friend met him in the middle, Peter, with Claire still curled against his torso, teleported the three of them out of chaos and into the slipstream.


	3. Tower of Babylon

**Chapter Two**

"**Tower of Babylon"**

By the time Peter opened his piercing eyes to find himself at home, the two people in his arms were both unconscious. Strictly speaking, Claire was stone-cold dead, but Hiro must have passed out from the pain of a bullet in his arm.

Remembering the firefight's effects, Peter finally started to feel the agonizing sting of the shots that hit their targets in his thigh, lower back, and shoulder. Groaning, he let Claire and Hiro slip ungracefully out of his grasp, and peeled off his coat.

"Sylar!" he called through gritted teeth. His brother was at his side in seconds, a kettle of hot water in hand. Before the others arrived, he'd been preparing to make some peppermint chai. Frowning at the two bodies and injured Peter, he tentatively set the pot down and scratched his head.

"Rough day?"

Peter glared. "The bullet in my back's crippled my legs. Grab the forceps and get it out first, will you?"

Sylar hastily rushed into another room and came back with a mad scientist's version of tweezers. Peter stripped himself of his long sleeve shirt and had already started on his shoulder wound by the time Sylar kneeled behind him.

"Sit still," Sylar instructed, right before digging the cold, metal tweezers into Peter's back. Petrelli bit his crooked lower lip, trying not to scream as Sylar searched for the offending bullet.

The tweezers accidentally pinched a nerve in the process, and this time, Peter did let out an anguished shout at the sudden nip of agony. Sylar mumbled a useless apology before pushing the forceps back in and working even harder to find the projectile. After a few seconds, the tweezers' tips bumped into something small, round, and metal. Sylar swiftly clamped onto it and pulled it out, giving Peter feeling back in his legs.

Unfortunately, now the wounded man could feel the injury on his upper leg in addition to his damaged arm. Peter dug his quivering fingers into his shoulder, and pulled out the warm bullet as fast as he could. As soon as the intrusion was removed, the tissue and skin knitted itself back together, perfectly smooth, as though nothing had ever happened.

Two down, one to go.

Lastly, Peter snatched the tweezers from his brother and practically stabbed himself in the thigh with them. Wet tears of pain began to cloud his vision as he desperatly tried to get that slug out. Though Peter had walked into his fair share of bullets, it still hurt like a mother every single time.

Mohinder Suresh and Molly Walker entered the room, rather unfazed as Peter held up a shiny, bloody bullet and watched his thigh heal. They'd been the ones Sylar invited over for tea, and this wasn't the first time a lunch date was interrupted by a banged up Peter and Co.

"Mohinder," Peter gasped, bare chest heaving in relief as he rested back against the table leg. "Take Hiro to the den and fix him up. I think he got shot too."

The Indian man asked no questions as he, with Sylar's help, hoisted the Japanese man up. Suresh was the closest thing they had to a medic, and the den was transformed into his first aid cove. Molly, Mohinder's self-appointed assistant, followed behind her adopted father and friend as they opened the basement door and headed downstairs.

Peter closed his eyes, still breathing heavily. In most cases, his healing covered pain as well. But when he was distracted and overwhelmed by it, he felt it just as bad as all the _normal _people.

His left hand brushed against a soft mane of hair, and Peter opened his eyes. Claire lay sprawled across his lap, beautiful brown hair streaked with blood and grey matter. Without the gaping hole in the side of her head, she would have seemed almost serene.

Peter looked at her guiltily as he gently slid his arms under her knees and shoulders. She was a light girl, but after the hell he'd just walked through, she felt like a bag of bricks. Peter's arms ached like they would snap off once he walked the ten feet to the cot by the window. It was more of a seat then a bed; just a three foot wide window sill with a mattress. Yet that was all Peter could make it to without collapsing, landing roughly on his knees as Claire dropped onto the cushion.

He took a deep breath and stood back up, wincing, before examining Claire's head wound. Hopefully, she could heal from this one, if his own experiences taught him anything…

But Peter didn't revive her just yet. He took an opportunity to turn her face to his, run his finger down her lovely, tanned cheek. As her uncle, getting within such a proximity would have been inappropriate. Peter never was able to admire her beauty quite like this.

"Did she get in the way, or was she another prisoner?" Peter heard Sylar say from behind him.

Peter didn't take his eyes off of Claire. "A little bit of both."

Sylar's brow knitted at the uncharacteristic softness of his brother's voice. "Give it up Peter, she's dead. Try to bed this one and I'll have to give you a bit of my own psychiatric help."

Peter whipped his head around and shot Sylar a dirty look. "No offense, but you're not exactly the first one I would got to for therapy."

Sylar kneeled beside him, a light smile on his face. "True."

Peter moistened his lips and turned back to the girl. "Anyway, she's not dead. You know who this is?"

The slighter man took a long, hard look at the dead girl on the sill. "No."

"Claire," Peter rasped significantly. The amnesiac's eyes grew as wide as flying saucers.

"This is actually her!" he exclaimed in wonderment, taking a closer view. For the past three years, Peter told Sylar all about his former niece as if the girl were a goddess. "You said she was blonde."

"She was," replied Peter, absently brushing his fingers along to tips of the girl's hair. "And now she's working for the FBI too. None of it makes any sense…"

"Why don't you wake her up and ask her?" Sylar suggested after a moment of simple staring at the young woman's slender, pretty form.

Peter nodded, but first began unbuttoning Claire's fitted dress shirt. ("It has blood on it," he explained offhandedly to his sibling). Sylar didn't protest, even though he knew the real story. After three years, he had become rather well adjusted to Peter's weird kicks.

Peter didn't bother asking for any tools this time. The bullet was clearly visible, and all he had to do was dip his fingers into the unpleasantly spongy wound and pull it out.

"She _should _heal," he remarked, more to reassure himself then to inform his brother. "Same thing happened to me in San Diego, remember?"

How could Sylar forget? Eighteen months prior, on a mission to break out a large group of captured metahumans in California, Peter came back with a bullet the circumference of a dime lodged in the back of his head. They seriously thought he didn't make it, but Sylar's knowledge of the brain empowered their allies to at least get the shot out of Peter's head. Alas, the young man came to again, and Sylar later illustrated that as long as the part of the brain that generated these abilities remained in tact, Peter could survive getting shot to the head. Pretty much the only way to blow apart said lobe would be to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger, and Peter had no intention of doing that any time soon.

This time was no different. Peter and Sylar watched on in relief as Claire's brain, skull, and scalp snapped back together with the wonder of spontaneous regeneration.

"She, uh…" Peter cleared his throat abruptly, looking sideways at Sylar. "She might not be too happy to see you. Just, as a warning…"

Before Sylar could press questions, Claire rose from the dead with a screeching gasp, her back arching off the bunk. It was actually the first time Peter ever witnessed a revival, always being on the 'revived' side of the spectrum.

Racking coughs came next, shaking Claire's body with their force, and Peter helped her sit upright. She wiped the blood off of her mouth with her bare wrist, frowning down at her torso. The dress shirt was gone; she was down to her spaghetti strapped undershirt.

"Hey," Peter grinned, his hand still on her back. Claire caught sight of him and her eyes flitted back and forth, as if making sure she was really looking at Peter Petrelli. After all, gone were the boyishly long emo bangs she used to tease him about. His hair was down to a wild crew cut, a few locks gelled to stick out over his brow. But other then that, it was the same clean shaven face, round brown eyes, and idealistic expression that she remembered.

The same brown eyes and idealistic expression that she remembered _killing her_, as well.

Even with his super reflexes (a power absorbed by some goody-goody Air Force chick they rescued, who later, Peter gladly chose to…entertain) Peter never saw the heinous slap to his face coming. One moment, Claire sat blankly with her hands at her sides. And the next, her features were screwed up in anger, palm flying at his face with breakneck speed.

Sylar nearly jumped a foot when it happened, and he restrained snorts of laughter afterwards. It didn't seem like _he _was the one Claire wasn't too happy to see. Had he not known that Claire and Peter thought themselves to be family, he would have assumed she was a scorned old flame.

Peter rubbed his crimson cheek as the blood vessels began to heal and bloom into beige. "What was that for?!"

"You shot me!" she yelled indignantly, eyes dancing in anger as his oblivious. She was going to slap him in the face again, yet Peter was quicker this time, catching her wrist in mid-arc.

"No, I just _saved _your pretty little face," Peter corrected her irritably, still gingerly stroking his cheek.

Claire scoffed unkindly. "Oh, blowing my brains out is the new 'saving me', huh? I think I liked it better when 'saving me' included jumping off a building or two," she mocked cruelly, wrenching her wrist out of his grasp and standing up from the cot. "And my 'pretty little face' is none of your business either, _uncle._"

Peter managed to smile, even against her vehemence. He was used to this, Claire, the firecracker of a girl that didn't put up with anyone's bull. As quite a rule-following man in his day, he'd ended up on the wrong side of her fury many a time.

Unfortunately, the wrath that he sensed was not just because he shot her. It was four years since they last saw each other, since he got up and ran for it without any notice. Not only was it heartbreaking to Claire, but also insulting. In the two years that they had to bond, Peter pretty much became her best friend in New York, her confidante. They told each other everything, but he neglected to mention any plans of running away, even to her. It was a grudge that Claire harbored in the back of her mind, until she started at the FBI, and…

"How d-," she began rapidly, but Peter cut her off, still ranting about what she said prior.

"I didn't _know _it was you, okay?" His arms were crossed, but one wrist was still extended and moving about as he talked. Claire recognized the mannerism and her heart clenched. "Plus, if I _left _you there, they would have thrown your body in a dumpster and forgotten about you, without even taking the bullet out. I saved you by bringing you here, a safe place away from all of that. And, uh, _by the way_- I'm_ not _your uncle either."

Claire ongoing glare at him turned into reeling when his last tidbit hit her. "What do you mean you're not? You're Nathan's brother; I'm his daughter-,"

"I'm not Nathan's brother," he informed her bluntly. "After I left, Mohinder told me I'm not a Petrelli. He sent me to my real family."

"Who?" asked Claire in a high pitched squeak.

"Him," Peter pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Sylar, who up till now remained unnoticed.

Claire walked closer to the stranger, stepping into the light to get a good view of him. Now that she thought about it, Nathan looked nothing like Peter compared to this guy. Sylar had the same dark brown eyes, black crew cut (though his hair was lighter in color than Peter's, who had hair as black as frickin' _coal_), high forehead and long neck.

He was a good-looking man, even if his nose was a little round and his brows rather thick. But Claire didn't have time to admire the physical; she longed for answers.

"I'm Claire," she introduced herself quietly, extending a hand towards him. Sylar grasped it, smothering her petite hand with his large fingers. He felt a blush spreading across his cheeks at her beauty (Sylar, quite the contrary to his brother, was a hundred times more introverted and shy around women), but masked it with a confident smile.

"Hello; my name's Sylar."

Claire snatched back her hand like she'd been burned, and ran back over to Peter.

"Tell me that's not the same Sylar," Claire hissed hysterically, going to clutch Peter's lapels, but finding nothing but his shirtless chest.

"Me too," Sylar groaned, but he already knew that _this _was what Peter warned him about.

"No, it's our Sylar," Peter admitted to Claire frankly. "But he's not like how you knew him; he doesn't remember what he did to you."

Claire's face shifted through different expressions before landing on confusion. "He has amnesia?"

"Yeah, that's what they usually call not remembering stuff," Peter nodded with enthusiastic sarcasm, and Claire resisted the urge to smack him. He'd become quite the smartass in her four year absence from him.

Claire looked back at Sylar, absorbing his features. She never knew what the man who killed Jackie, who tried to kill her on a few occasions, looked like. He always remained in a baseball cap and shadow, and Claire's mind filled in the blanks. Whenever she pictured the killer, she imagined him as an old, disfigured hobo or something. Not a young, God, _so _young man.

"Please, don't tell me what I did," Sylar told her, holding up a palm as a peace offering. "It's in my last life now, and I don't want any of those regrets invading this one."

"You don't want to remember Jackie Wilcox's blood on your hands!" Claire seethed dangerously, and Peter gripped her biceps, afraid she was gonna leap forward and maul his mild-mannered brother.

"No, I _don't_," Sylar replied, uncharacteristically stern. "If you woke up one day and didn't know who you even your name, would _you _want to know of the terrible things you've done?"

Claire's body relaxed and she looked down. He had a point. Perhaps this was a good opportunity for Sylar to start fresh, go back to his old self. After all, he couldn't have been a killer all his life.

Sylar, meanwhile, was letting her words sink into him. _Jackie Wilcox_. Another victim he just became aware of in the ever growing, seemingly never ending list. He closed his eyes and tried to remember a Jackie, remember her personality, her looks. A girl, or woman, that had a family, friends, people that loved her. Each murder was a terrible act, but the victim was never the only one hurt. At least another thirty people went into despair at Sylar's hand. When he mentally calculated it all up, he figured there were _hundreds _of people whom he'd upset with his wrongdoings. Even though he couldn't remember any of it, Sylar's heart still thumped with regret and remorse in his rib cage.

"You didn't even say goodbye, you know," Claire lowered her voice, turning to Peter. The mood shifted drastically, from one of tumult, to a quiet lament.

"I'm sorry," he said honestly. "But I told you we'd meet again. Couldn't you have some sort of faith in that?"

"No," she shook her head, sitting back down on the bunk. "A year after Nathan became president, when the laws started, he signed me up for the FBI to protect me from being branded. Angela and he tried so hard to erase me from the world that they sent the Haitian to everyone who knew me and wiped away all knowledge of me from their memories."

Peter's frown softened into a sympathetic gaze. She often used to mention Zach to him, her best friend whose memories had also been erased.

"'Everyone' included you," Claire continued miserably. "But Angela told me later there was one person they couldn't mind wipe. I always assumed it was Sylar." She glanced briefly in the amnesiac's direction and he looked away. "But I guess it was you, Peter. You still remember me."

He racked his brain. "I don't remember the Haitian ever coming here, but I guess that's the point, right?"

"Even if you did shoot me and run away," Claire wryly snapped, before a small, tender smile appeared on her lips, "I'm still glad you're the one that didn't forget."

They gazed at each other for a few seconds before Sylar awkwardly cleared his throat.

"Claire? They all think you're dead at the FBI. Shouldn't we go tell someone you're okay before Peter gets charged with murder?"

"Whatever," Peter blew Sylar's concern off. "I've killed lots of people, and they haven't gone after me yet. Besides, no one knows where this place is."

Claire felt bile burn her throat. So Peter was a murderer now, too? She stood up and trotted across the room. Clearly, Sylar had a very bad influence on him.

"I need to go," she announced tersely. "They need to know I'm alive."

Peter held her in place using telekinesis, and spun her around to face him. Claire's briefly docile tones turned back into annoyance and anger.

Claire wiggled in the invisible bindings. "Let go of me!" she warned. Peter ignored her.

"They don't _care _if you're alive, Claire," he said.

"What are you talking about?" Claire shot back. "Turn on a TV. I'm sure it's all over the news!"

Reluctantly, Peter let her go and flipped on an old, grubby set in the corner. He reached towards the remote, and it flew gracefully into his outstretched palm. Claire noticed several PEZ dispensers and wrappers of the same name scattered across the table where the remote had rested before.

Peter flipped the channel to the network news, and it showed a bit of both their suspicions. The break-in at the FBI was reported correctly, but the result was a downright lie.

"_We've just recently got news of a breach at the FBI, but representatives have announced it as a green level situation. The criminal who 'broke in' was a mere tourist lost in his way. The FBI reports the whole thing to a false alarm, and though a couple personnel were mildly injured in their attempt to respond, everyone made it out alive and okay. Stay tuned to-"_

_Click. _Peter pressed the off button and tossed the controller aside. Claire's lips were slightly parted in shock, and she didn't notice Peter in front of her until her view was full of skin.

"I told you," Peter insisted. "They don't care. If Nathan really erased you like you said he did, then they can't report the death of someone who doesn't exist, can they?"

"They don't know I'm dead," Claire stammered, taking a few steps backward and shaking her head in denial. "T-They know I'm indestructible, so they just assume I'll heal and get back to them. They can't report me dead if they don't find a body."

"Claire," Peter groaned, grasping her shoulders to still her. "Open your eyes. They. Don't. Care. We're disposable to them."

"Not me!" Claire cried, pushing him away. "They've got to be going crazy! I'm like…stolen technology or something! If anything else got taken by the FBI, they'd be hell bent on-,"

"No, Claire, Claire, _listen_, to me, okay?" Peter claimed more firmly, pulling her towards him and lightly shaking her. "They have a database of all of us. Names, ages, abilities, _everything. _They've probably already found another indestructible agent out in Kansas somewhere by now. Think about it. It's not like they _really_ need you, so why bother looking?"

Claire heard his words of logic as if she was listening through a tunnel. She knew in her heart that he was right, but that didn't mean she wanted to accept it so easily. Claire realized when walking into the job that she was a prototype, a novelty act. Human Barrier Version 1.0. And three years later, there was bound to be a better model. The FBI would just search for someone better, stronger, more capable to replace her.

The young woman, feeling very much like a little girl again, shivered with her wrists held painfully in Peter's fists. He noticed her discomfort and let her forearms slip out of his fingers, then turned and placed a hand on the small of her back.

"Come on," he sighed, leading her up the stairs. "I'll find you some clothes that aren't bloody…"

Claire mutely let him guide her around the upper floor, noticing even more crushed PEZ and dispensers with Bert and Ernie, and Harry Potter scattered across the floor. The whole place was quite messy for a…whatever it was.

"Er…what did this used to be?" she inquired, looking over the railing to see a small chandelier hanging from the main room. It was a dark, musky sort of place, and as they reached the second story, she noticed fading copper nameplates on all of the doors. _Dolly. Kitty. Tiffany. _

"Bordello," Peter replied, leading her into a room with the name _Krystal_ on the door. "Isn't it obvious?"

Claire caught sight of the leopard printed carpet stained with God only knew what. "Now that you mention it, I guess it is." She crept over to the window and drew back the tattered curtains. "Where are we?"

Peter followed her gaze. "Outskirts of Boston. This building is from the late 1800s, I think. So, it's a lot more Moulin Rouge than-,"

"Emerald City," Claire smiled, and Peter grinned back at their inside joke. For Claire's eighteenth birthday, he offered to take her out to dinner, as fancy or Taco Bellish as she pleased. They saw a place named Emerald City while cruising downtown, made nothing of the Over 18 Only ID check, and were quick to find that the place offered dinner…_and _a 'show.'

Peter gestured to the bed. "Sorry about the sheets, but we haven't gotten around to buying new ones. Just got the place kind of recently and all…" He looked skyward a bit guiltily. His words were only true if "three years ago" was considered "recently".

Claire frowned. "What about it? You don't expect me to walk around wearing _sheets _do you? I'm not a ghost."

Now Peter looked bewildered. "I'm not gonna make you sleep on the floor."

Claire caught his drift and rounded on him. "Wait, _no. _I'm not _staying _here. I'm going home!"

"You're hundreds of miles away; how do you plan on getting there?"

"Last time I checked, you can teleport AND fly, Peter," Claire reminded him, arms crossed over her chest.

"_I'm _not taking you! You have to stay here! The first thing that comes out of your mouth about this place, and we're finished. You've seen too much to leave now."

Claire's jaw dropped crossly. "You're keeping me _prisoner? _What, you think I'll have a parade telling everyone your deepest darkest secrets? I just need to get back to Nathan, who _is _my father and all-,"

"No!" yelled Peter, with an ire he hadn't displayed yet that made Claire jump. "I am NOT taking you to that man! After all he's done, I want nothing to do with him!"

"And I don't want anything to do with Sylar!" Claire screamed back. "He's a killer, and he's turned you into one too!"

"He _was _a killer, and at least he's loyal," Peter shook his head. "You and Nathan have betrayed all of us, by joining those guys in Washington! _They're _the real murderers!"

Claire walked towards him menacingly, forcing him to back up until he was standing in the doorway to Krystal's bedroom.

"Whatever," she snarled. "I'm not taking morality lessons from a pair of criminals!"

With that, she slammed his own door in his face, barely missing his nose.

"DON'T SLAM THE DOORS!!!" came the angry call of Sylar from downstairs, an outburst that Peter was used to hearing. Sylar was extremely OCD about doors being slammed, especially in this place that was about to fall apart.

Peter wanted to push that stupid, decaying door back open and teach the fiery minx a lesson, but he held himself back. They'd gotten into plenty of fights before, and it always resolved itself in the end. Besides, he had to cut her slack for naivety. Peter remembered what it was like to meet Sylar again after three years of thinking him a brain-eating psycho. The feeling was an unpleasant one that took a while to get over. Plus, she mentioned that Nathan drafted her into the FBI, so it wasn't reallyClaire's choice to join.

Peter regained some sense of decency and sympathy towards the young woman as he bore holes into Krystal's tilted nameplate, he still didn't open the door and apologize. Six years ago, yes, but Peter was a changed man. Allies only got one "I'm sorry" and he'd already used that up on Claire.

Meanwhile, Sylar sat downstairs, still thinking about Claire and fuming about the door being slammed shut. He heard the yells of his brother and the woman crystal clear, using super hearing, and had to agree a little with both of them. They couldn't keep Claire locked up forever, and her father deserved to know if his daughter was alright. But on the other hand, she _had _seen too much, and even if they swore her to secrecy, something could slip out.

And he'd have to buy Peter some more PEZ later for sticking up for him. The lemon kind. That was Peter's favorite flavor and helped fight off the addictions the best.

Sylar knew he should have felt anger at Claire for her obvious resentment towards him, yet he could not muster up any ill will. She was afraid of his past even more then he was, for she saw it in the making with her own eyes. And, the stirring in his gut he felt when she shook his hand only made it easier to accept the girl.

_Oh, no, _he shook his head. _Not her. Out of my league, and Peter saw her first. _

But she didn't seem too happy with Peter…

…when she still thought Sylar was a murdering lunatic.

The young man rested his chin in his palm thoughtfully and watched Peter muttering as he trooped down the stairs. Mohinder came from the basement at the same time, looking brimming to his curls with something to say.

"Hiro's been taken care of," the Indian man announced. "He's still asleep, and recovering from the TRS, but he'll have his powers back within the next twenty-four hours."

"Good," Peter replied half-heartedly, slumping in his favorite, moth eaten recliner and grabbing a packet of PEZ from the coffee table. "Just a day more to wait and he'll be able to teleport Claire to the freaking moon for us."

"Peter." Sylar rolled his eyes. "You don't mean that."

Peter munched on the candies, hesitated and sighed. "You're right. I meant to say the _sun._"

xxx

In the White House, things weren't nearly as nonchalant as Peter suspected. Though he was correct on placing Claire as 'replaceable' in the FBI, Nathan Petrelli was actually having a mental meltdown.

Elisa Thayer, the ill-tempered, red-headed, and wickedly beautiful co-chair of the Investigation and Criminal Defense wing, took matters into her own hands. The moment she got an eyeful of the security tapes, she turned on her stiletto heel and blew through ten layers of security to get to the Oval Office.

"Nathan," she quipped, clip-clopping through the door. "I need to speak with you in private."

He asked no questions, and neither did his secret service men. Mrs. Thayer had a way of controlling him unlike anyone else.

Once they were alone, she leaned forward on his desk and lowered her voice. "A source informs me that there was a casualty in today's breach. Claire was killed, shot in the head by the invader, who teleported away with her body."

"Hiro Naka-,"

"No," Elisa interrupted the president. "We've reviewed the tapes and Nakamura was unconscious at the time. It was the rescuer himself. Dark hair, trenchcoat, about five foot nine. Know anyone who can teleport that looks like that?" Her tone, expression, and cocked eyebrow told him that she already knew.

And so did he.

"Peter," Nathan muttered. "Why would he kill Claire, and _how _could he-,"

Elisa interrupted him again. "Bullet wound to the head, Nathan. But seeing as her body was taken by Peter, we don't know if she recovered or not."

Nathan rose from his chair and slowly rounded the side of his desk until he was eye-to-eye with the woman. "I guess that means you need to find him then, doesn't it?" he suggested coldly, as though talking to a naïve child. It was Nathan's way of controlling his emotions: making others feel inferior.

Elisa Thayer was not a woman you just talk down to, though. "I'm the only one who even knows about your daughter," she boiled. "Do you _want _me to get on my intercom and tell everyone that Mary Whetsill, the indestructible super weapon, is First Daughter Claire Bennet? I could have it done in just a few short minutes."

Nathan gritted his teeth. That threat worked every time to shut him right up.

"Get a team of secret service to go on a confidential mission," President Petrelli ordered. "I don't want more then ten people to know about this, Thayer. Find Peter Petrelli, incarcerate him, get my daughter back, and don't let a soul know. Do you understand?"

"Of course," she replied smugly, tearing herself away from their proximity and walking back to the ivory double doors. Nathan had to be her least favorite person in the world, but a deal was a deal. Elisa would not let everything she'd worked on for six years go down the toilet because a little girl wanted to roll over and play dead.

xxx


	4. Exodus

Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

**Some review replies:**

_MobiuS:_ heh, Sylar the homemaker. It's slightly true, mostly because Sylar is very anal and OCD, which I could see as a Sylarish trait. He's still got a can of kick-ass up his sleeve though, but Peter's been overshadowing him lately…

_coco0106: _Claire is stuck between being naïve and being ignorant on purpose, you know? She doesn't like what she does, but she accepts it, and it's easier to accept when she pretends those big problems don't exist. Like if she ignores it, it will go away. However, it's something she's learning CAN'T be ignored anymore.

_Ladywilde_: Peter may seem like the tough guy at first, but under all that snark, he's still the same guy. Sylar, on the other hand, is the real changed one. You're right, he is very tortured and confused, but don't worry: I love my dear Sy. I'll go easy on him :D

_Nomad:_ Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere, lol. I DO like to pace this out a bit though, so it's not over too fast, though.

**Thanks to all of my reviewers! Here's the next chapter!**

**Chapter Three**

"**Exodus"**

Somewhere throughout the course of the day, the men of the house and Claire formed an unspoken silent treatment with each other. Peter, Sylar, and Mohinder briefly heard a few doors opening upstairs, and a shower running, but made no move to talk to the young woman. In actuality, Peter was the only one angry with her; the two other, more passive men simply took the high ground and left Claire alone.

By sunset, everyone was feeling dinnertime hunger pains, including the fuming girl upstairs. Right before Sylar was about to start on dinner, Hiro managed to pull himself together to enter the living room.

The Japanese man's arm had a lean-to of a sling supporting his arm, and the long jacket that Hiro favored was gone. Peter knew him well, but it was still odd to see his best friend in a loose hanging T-shirt, a large, bloody, frayed hole in the shoulder.

Peter instantly stood up and guided his friend to a chair. "Nasty hit you took, buddy."

Hiro sat down appreciatively in Peter's chair. "What doesn't kill me only makes me stronger," he shrugged, prompting Peter to smile a bit. Everything out of Hiro's mouth these days was something from a fortune cookie.

"I have a more immediate problem, Peter," Hiro further explicated, sitting a little straighter. Peter already prepared himself for this conversation.

"Your sword…yeah…"

"We must go back and retrieve it from the FBI."

"Er," Peter cringed slightly, pacing the floor and running his hand over his mouth thoughtfully. "I don't know if that's the greatest idea. FBI security is gonna be _insane, _and Claire will want to go back-,"

"Claire?" Hiro interrupted in marvel. "She was the girl, wasn't she?"

Peter thought back to the hostage scenario in Washington hours before, realizing that Hiro had a perfect view of his damsel/victim. "Why didn't you warn me about who I was about to shoot?"

"I'm sorry; I did not know," Hiro replied solemnly, bowing his head. "I could not see her face well, and you've only shown me her in pictures."

"Well, she's alive enough to shun us, upstairs," Peter rolled his eyes slumping in the chair opposite Hiro. His hand absently groped for more lemon PEZ on the table beside him, out of habit.

Hiro watched as Peter tossed half a packet into his mouth at once, eyes closed in a bit of relief as he chewed, swallowed, and started on the rest.

"Keep that up and your never gonna get that flavor out of your mouth," Hiro weakly pointed out for the who-know-how-many-ith time.

"Girls say I taste like Pine-Sol," Peter admitted. Then, his face turned dark and if he still had bangs, they would have fallen into his eyes. "But it's this or the scotch."

Hiro gladly changed the subject. "You said that Claire's upstairs? Do you think she might know where in the building it would be?"

"Come on," his friend groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Can't you just get another sword?" The last thing he felt Claire would succumb to was helping _them_.

"That sword belonged to Kensei!" cried the Japanese man, standing up. "It's a priceless, irreplaceable artifact!"

"Whoa, calm down," Peter said, holding up his palms. "Alright, new sword: not an option. I get it."

"Claire is our only lead," Hiro continued desperatly. "Without her, my sword is lost."

Peter's face was deep in thought once again, eyes glazed over with a cloud of idea. Sylar's ability to see how things work weaved itself into his contemplations, ruling out weak plans and supplying him with the best.

"Molly," he finally announced after chewing it over. "I'll send Molly up to go talk to her." The sixteen year old had the best shot of luring Claire out of Krystal's cove; Claire had no previous grudge against her, and the agent was too kind-hearted to slam the door in a girl's face.

Hiro seemed to agree with this option. "Very well. But you must make peace with Claire at some point."

The pointed look that he directed at Peter had nothing to do with swords or superpowers.

The brother clapped Hiro on the shoulder and went back into the main hall. Molly Walker read an old Harry Potter book in the corner of the room.

"Molly?" Peter asked kindly. The girl brought out a soft side in him that didn't show much. Perhaps it was because Molly was the same age as Claire when Peter first met the cheerleader. In a twisted way, the petite human tracking system reminded him of a sweet Claire and better times.

She looked up from her novel and smiled. "What's up?"

"Can you go upstairs and ask Claire if she knows anything about Hiro's sword?" He paused, remembered Hiro's advice, and added, "And then can you tell her I want her to come down for dinner? I really don't want her to starve or anything, and she's so stubborn…" An exhausted expression washed over his face. "You'll probably have the best luck with her."

"You can't do it yourself?" Molly cocked her head. Her response was not unkind, but still required Peter to grapple with a comeback.

"It's complicated," he lamely explained.

Molly sighed and placed a makeshift bookmark on page 625, leaving the Golden Trio to themselves for a little bit. "Where is she?"

Peter arched an eyebrow. "Don't you have a power to figure that out?" he asked half-seriously, in payback for her sarcasm. Molly tutted and playfully punched him in the arm as she stood up. Peter chuckled off her annoyance.

"Yeah, if I want a migraine," she retorted, brushing past him and heading towards the staircase.

"Claire's in Krystal's room," Peter replied honestly after a few seconds. "Third door to the left."

Molly called thanks as she perkily jogged up the rotting steps, finding Krystal's room within seconds.

"Claire?" she tentatively hollered, politely knocking on the wooden door. "It's Molly. Are you hungry?"

No reply. There wasn't even any barely audible MP3 music or floors creaking. Granted Claire _could _be napping, but Molly's knocks reverberating through the hollow walls should have been enough to wake her up.

"Claire?" Molly called again. She frowned at the lack of response. "I'm coming in, okay?"

The doorknob hung on by a thread, and Molly wondered how the door even stayed shut. She pushed a gentle hand forward and it slowly swung open, revealing a dirty, empty room not fit for the beautiful woman that Claire bloomed into.

_Maybe she's in the bathroom? _Molly mused, crossing to the other side of the hall. Alas, a wide open door with vacancy inside.

Against her better judgment, Molly took Peter's advice and accessed her ability. Mohinder warned her only to use it in the case of an emergency, and she had a gut feeling that _this _might constitute as one.

_Claire. Claire. Claire Bennet._

Images flashed before Molly's eyes, until they all merged into a single vision. Claire entering a…Molly didn't know what the place was…just saw a sign for it. But at this point, it didn't matter where exactly the woman was; only that she had clearly escaped.

Molly opened her eyes and slumped to the floor, overwhelmed with fatigue. "Peter!" she cried at the top of her lungs, and the empath was at her side in moments. Loud shouts and footsteps could be heard downstairs as Mohinder, Sylar, and Hiro ran up the steps to follow him.

"What's wrong?" he shot out. "Molly, c'mon, stand up." Peter wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled her up by the waist. "You didn't try to use your power did you? I wasn't serious, I-,"

"Not your fault. Claire's gone," Molly gasped out, cutting off his words and clutching onto the thin cotton of his shirt. "Hot…Spur…"

They were the last words she spoke before her eyes rolled back and she feinted in his arms.

xxx

Claire mutely tipped the bus driver and climbed out onto the sidewalk. Luckily, she had a vague knowledge of where everything was in Boston; The Petrelli family (being Angela and Nathan, pretty much) dragged her, Simon, Monty, and Peter up there for winter vacation five years previously. Another 'luckily' was that their hotel rested right next to a Hot Spur, something Claire dug up from the bag of her instinct fueled subconscious. Survive. Escape. Run.

Dusk approached as Claire trotted a couple blocks up the road to the place she remembered. A couple of bystanders gave her funny looks; the girl with the wet hair, mismatched, too-small clothes that she managed to dig up from some wardrobe, and high heels that she couldn't find matches for. Their look was not inconspicuous, for they were both plain white heels, but with one an inch shorter then the other, Claire ended up walking like Marylin Monroe.

Hot Spur, the car rental place, was just up ahead, and Claire thanked her lucky stars for her streak of practicality. Big handbags were a no-no at the FBI, so she usually tucked a small wallet in her back pocket. So, Claire still had access to her license, some money, and more. Of course, it was _Mary Whetsill's _ID and such, but perhaps that was a good thing in her current situation…

The counter clerks gave her slightly disproving glances as she pushed her way through the ringing doors, but were forcefully nice at any rate. Claire hastily pulled out her ID.

"I just need a car. Doesn't matter what kind. Whatever's cheapest."

The cool air conditioning combined with her sopping hair drew goose bumps out onto her skin as she silently prayed for the cashier to hurry it up already. Peter and Hiro were both time lords, and all four men were smart in addition to that. It wouldn't take long for them to figure out that she'd thrown herself off the window ledge.

No…it wouldn't take long at all.

xxx

"What has she done?" Mohinder frantically cried, taking Molly from Peter and brushing the hair off of his adopted daughter's forehead. "I've told her a hundred times not to use her abilities!"

"She said Claire's gone," Peter stammered. "She's at a car rental place."

"But there are several of them around here," Sylar gravely noted. "Which one is she at?"

Mohinder cradled Molly in his arms and carried her to one of the empty rooms, looking more on the verge of tears then when he saw his father's own death.

Hiro, who rubbed his shoulder in pain, sat back while the brothers continued their discussion.

"Hot Spur. I'll teleport to all of them," Peter decided quickly. "But I'll take Mohinder and Molly home first, on the way. She's got her medicine there."

Before Sylar could sigh back another flaw in the plan, he rushed after the teenager and Indian man, grabbed hold of them, and was gone.

xxx

"Thank you Miss Whetsill," smiled the clerk in mock cheer. "Your Versa is across the street in the parking garage, level 2, space 54."

He handed Claire some change and a receipt, and she briskly walked out the front door. Yet, the sense of dread in her gut was not quite dissolved. Sure she had the keys, but that didn't mean Peter couldn't teleport in front of her at any given second.

Claire managed to make it all the way across the street, up the stairs, and three feet away from her Nissan Versa before he appeared.

"What the _hell _are you doing?!"

The next thing she saw was dark fabric smothering her face as Peter threw his arms around her and held her tightly to him. She didn't even bother to push him off, knowing from enough bear hug fights that he was much stronger than she.

Peter abruptly pulled back when he realized what he'd just done, blinking a bit bewilderedly. The embrace was mostly out of habit and instinct, rather then affection. He'd almost forgotten about what being worried about someone he cared aboutfelt like.

"Where have you been?!" he continued, pointing and accusing finger at her. "Just…getting up and running away like that! What are you, fifteen?!"

Claire glared daggers back at the insult he knew would hurt her. "I make my own decisions now," she hissed. "And I decided that it was time to leave."

She turned back to ignore him and open her car door, but Peter viciously whipped her around by the arm. The car keys slipped from Claire's fingertips in shock at his fervor. She'd been on the victim side of several of Peter's overprotective rants, but he never laid a hand on her. This time, his rage started to scare her.

"I've already told you!" he yelled. "You can't _leave _with the information you're carrying!"

"And I've told YOU that I'm not going to say anything!"

"There are ways of getting it out of you," he lowered his voice. "Me and Hiro are pretty much on the 'America's Most Wanted Metahumans' list. Sylar's pretty safe, but you know he has a criminal record too. When Nathan finds out where you've been, and you _know _he will…they'll send mind readers, lie detector tests, people who can force you to talk. It doesn't _matter _what secrets you're willing to keep."

"They're my family, Peter," she cried desperatly. "They're not saints, but they're the only people I can…_be _around that don't make me feel like a freak. Even with this ability, they make me feel human!"

"God, Claire!" Peter suddenly slammed the side of the Versa in frustration, and it amazed Claire that he didn't leave a dent. "Don't you _get it_?"

"Get what?" she whispered, a little intrigue mixed with her fear.

He brought a hand forward and Claire impulsively ducked back, afraid that he was about to strike her. But Peter merely grabbed her arm and pulled up the sleeve, revealing pale, unblemished skin. He gently ran a thumb over the underside of her wrist, shaking his head wordlessly.

"You have…no idea…," he snarled, barely audible as he roughly let her wrist drop, "what it's like….to not feel human…"

As he gritted out each syllable, he pulled up his own sleeve and started taking off his watch. At the end of his seeth, Peter held out his wrist to her, showing a dull, green, barcode tattoo with the initials M. P.Petrelli underneath.

"I'm just a number in a database Claire. _Their _computers. You wonder why I'm so pissed at Nathan?" As he spoke, his voice cracked with passion, and the always emotional Claire felt tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. Peter finished his statement. "Nathan was the one that led them right to me, forced me into hiding."

"_This_," He shoved his wrist further even more to emphasize the barcode, and Claire closed her eyes, wincing. "This is the real loss of humanity. Not the abilities."

Claire stood there frozen in shell-shocked silence, eyelids tightly closed and hands balled into fists. A couple teardrops leaked out from under her long lashes, mascara mixing with them to create black, wet trails down her cheeks.

As an agent for three years, she'd seen plenty of people bar-coded like Peter, and was never a huge fan of the practice. However, as long as she steered clear of the whole mess, Claire lived in blissful ignorance. Now, having the issue shoved in her face was too much to handle at once. Seeing strangers in the situation didn't have nearly the same effect. Never had she thought about someone she loved having to undergo such animalistic treatment.

It was the Company and their tracking system all over again.

"And don't tell me you didn't know," Peter continued, finally having lowered his wrist and put on his watch. "You saw it every day, but didn't give a care, right? _You _were safe, and that's all that mattered."

His heart panged on sight of her glistening grey-green eyes that greeted him. Claire was full of spunk and power; she always gave as well as she got in a brawl. But now, she just _let him _tear out at her in shame. Peter almost considered apologizing until she spoke.

"You need to let it go, Peter," she told him slow and evenly. "It's never gonna get any better." The words felt like chalk in her mouth, dry and emotionless. They were routine; not from the heart.

Peter ran a palm across his forehead, scoffing in incredulity. "I don't believe this," he said bitterly. His hand dropped from his face, and he held his arms wide. "But you know what? J-just…_go, _okay? Go back to your buddies in D.C. Sell us all out. At least we'll know who to blame."

He angrily turned on his heel and walked away, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. Claire's bloodshot eyes and confused forlorn tempted him to run back and comfort her, tell her he was too harsh, but no. _She deserved what she got_. If the bitch wanted to go "home" then he'd let her. He'd let her walk away. And the only mark he'd leave on her would be the guilt on her face.

Memories, love, trust…it died a long time ago, and Peter decided that his urge to protect her should go with it. Claire watched him teleport away, still having not the slightest idea what to do. She bent down to the ground and picked up the rental keys without moving her vision from that spot where he stood.

That barcode would be burned in her mind until her days end.

4561654.

M. P. Petrelli.

Peter had gone by his middle name since he was six years old. Claire remembered the day he told her, too. Something about applying for a credit card right after Claire moved in with Nathan. She asked him why all his bills and stuff had an 'M' before everything. He smirked kindly and commented that "Michael" was never a fitting name for him.

That seemed so long ago. How had things changed that much from Peter and Claire who loved each other unconditionally, to Peter and Claire that fought with hatred in every bone and word? This brave new world was tearing families, friends apart.

Claire got into the car with tearstreaks still on her face.

xxx

Peter returned home red-faced and scowling, with only Sylar to take out his frustrations on.

"Did you get Mohinder and Molly home alright?" Sylar asked foremost, wanting to stay away from the "C" subject for a bit. Obviously, Peter needed to calm down before delving into that chestnut, and Sylar harbored genuine concern for his best friend and 'niece.'

"They're fine," Peter confirmed quickly. "But can you believe what she did?!"

"What now?" his brother replied boredly, taking a sip of chai (he had boxes of it, plus a very nice teaset, as a Dhwari gift from Mohinder).

Peter sat down irately into his recliner, brutally scrambling around the end table's drawers for some PEZ.

"I don't even know where to begin," he spat. "First, she runs away, and then, she says that Nathan and them make her feel _normal_. I mean, it's insulting! I was the only one she could trust for over two years and now those traitors-just…God…"

Sylar snorted lightly. "Want some chai? It'll calm you down, really," he insisted, holding out his teacup. Peter sighed and took the offering, draining the teacup in one gulp. He handed the cup back to his brother, grimacing a little.

"It tastes like grass. How do you drink this stuff?"

"You get used to it," Sylar shrugged.

Even though the hot drink had an aftertaste like weed mixed with peppermint and a football player's armpit, Peter was considerably calmer after wolfing it down.

"To be fair," Sylar claimed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "You did leave her."

"I know," muttered Peter, looking at that dusty, ugly patterned carpet. "I didn't want to do that to her. And I apologized; you heard me!"

Sylar bit back a retort. "Peter. Honestly. One apology doesn't make up for four years of absence. And you know…maybe if you hadn't left, she wouldn't have ended up in the FBI. Maybe she resents you for that."

Peter stared back for a long while. "I've really messed up, this time, haven't I?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Sylar clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically.

"Yes…you have."

Groaning, Peter slumped back in chair, brushing a hand over his ebony hair. "It doesn't matter anymore, though. She's gone. I told her to get out and stay out and…now she's all pissed at us, and is gonna rat us out as soon as she gets home."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Sylar wisely noted. The use of that aphorism reminded Peter of something. Or, someone in particular that told him the same thing every time a Sheila or a Bridget came busting in to rip Peter a new one.

"Where'd Hiro go?" he frowned, looking around the brothel for his best friend. Sylar pointed to the basement door in reply.

"He's sleeping down there for tonight. He's too weak to teleport, and I don't think he's going anywhere without that sword."

Peter nodded in acknowledgement, absorbing the information without realizing it. His mind replayed his last actions over like a broken record. Claire standing in turmoil, fighting back sobs as he tore her to shreds. It worse then shooting her. _That _was an accident. This time, he'd been in utter control of what he was doing, and almost felt ashamed afterward as he listened to the pouring rain outside.

"Fantastic," grumbled Sylar, standing up and looking at the ceiling. "Half the upstairs rooms are gonna be flooded."

He telekinetically sent a bunch of buckets flying up the stairs, and off to rest under the several leaks in the roof. Worn down whorehouses came with a few nuisances every now and then.

"This is going to sound crazy," Peter said hoarsely, moistening his lips and looking up at Sylar. "But I…I really want to see her again."

_Me too, _thought Sylar, though he said nothing of the sort. "That's normal," the young man declared, putting on the 'selfless comforting brother' act once again. Truth was, a dark part of him wanted Peter and Claire at odds with each other…to leave Claire all to him…

_No, _he scolded himself. _Peter obviously cares about her, and I hardly know her. He should be first in line._

_But what if he _doesn't, _huh? They did think they were family for a few years. Wouldn't that be a little _awkward _for them, hmmm? No, there's not a chance. She's all yours…_

_Stop it!_

"Um…of course…like I said…," he stuttered, coming out of his thoughts. "You probably feel guilty and are worried about her, and us, so…so yes, that would be normal."

"You alright?" Peter leaned forward a bit, peering at him suspiciously.

"Oh! Fine," Sylar assured him. "Just woozy. It's probably the chai."

"Right."

Peter's mind was in a fog too. He couldn't help but accessing Molly's ability, seeing where Claire was at that point in time. In her car, driving in the rain somewhere, while wiping away the tearstains on her cheeks. Peter shook off the vision, bowing his head in misery.

"You didn't get to have dinner," Sylar reminded him, walking into the kitchen. "I made Ramen noodles."

"We have those every day," Peter moaned, closing his eyes and relaxing gloomily in his chair. Sylar looked at him helplessly.

"They're cheap. We already spent all our money on the computer stuff."

"What are you talking about?" Peter opened his eyes. "Me and Hiro stole most of that from the CIA."

"The accessories," Sylar held up a finger. "_I_ had to buy the computer. Granted, I hacked it and got all the programming for free, with Molly's boyfriend's help, but the $3000 laptop was out of my pocket."

"I still can't believe they took cash for that thing," Peter reminisced. Sylar couldn't use a credit card lest he wanted to be found by Homeland Security, so he had to come up with the money in bills. Out of Hiro, Molly, Peter, and himself, Sylar was the only one to evade getting bar-coded as of yet. Peter held off the feds for a reasonable time before that infamous 'getting-shot-in-back-of-the-head' incident in San Diego got the best of him.

"If you're so sick of living the simple life, why don't you go rob a bank?" Sylar suggested, bringing out a bowl of Oriental Ramen noodles.

"Don't feel like it. I would be kind of guilty about that too," Peter admitted. He wound a healthy heap of noodles onto a fork. "I could accidentally end up stealing money from people like us. It's too risky."

Sylar accepted that well enough, fiddling with his watch dial to pass the time.

"When are you gonna get that thing fixed?" Peter noticed and cocked his head towards the timepiece.

Sylar rubbed a thumb affectionately over the cracked glass face. "I like it broken," he replied simply.

Peter frowned slightly and ate the noodles in silence, contemplating why anyone would want it to be seven minutes to midnight forever.


	5. Judas's Return

**Chapter Four**

"**Judas's Return"**

Peter mentally sent his empty noodle bowl flying into the sink to join the others. The old house didn't come with a dishwasher, microwave, or fridge, so the motley crew was forced to make a trip to Linins N' Things after moving in. The dishwasher was still absent, however, so the plates were washed by hand. Or, by superpower if the brothers were feeling lazy.

He checked his watch, which read 8:32 under the SYLAR label. Peter's biological brother tinkered with watches as a pastime, something Peter himself always found boring and odd. Sylar constructed a duplicate of his own Sylar brand timepiece, to replace his broken one, but couldn't bear to part with the original. He didn't want to get rid of the new one, though, so he just gave it to Peter instead.

When the second hand crossed the nine, a loud bang startled the brothers.

The noise was rhythmic and terse, but the sound ricocheted throughout the abode. It took Peter and Sylar a second to realize that someone was at their front door, slamming the kiss-shaped metal knocker against the wood.

Sylar immediately dimmed the lights with his mind, and turned off all electronic devices. The abandoned brothel was as silent as a grave within moments, making the continuing knocks on the entrance and the pounding rain on their tin roof even louder.

"Wait," Peter whispered, holding a finger to his mouth, with the other hand up in thought. Without warning, he hastened off to the door, leaving Sylar gaping from the living room.

"What are you doing?" Sylar hissed. "It could be the police!"

"Oh, so cops _knock_ now?" Peter snapped back, waving a hand down the side of the door and undoing the ten different locks. While he prepared himself for the mystery on their stoop, his brother Sylar rushed off to the basement to wake up Hiro. And what ended up greeting Peter were not cops, or the FBI, or girl scouts selling cookies.

What _really_ stood before Peter would cost him more then any of those, in the long run.

Claire shivered, her already wet hair drenched even more by the pouring rain. Her clothes clung to her slim body, making her seem smaller and more fragile then usual. The rain had also washed her make-up away, leaving her face fresh and youthful.

"I know you don't want me here," she barely croaked out at Peter, who watched her, expressionless. "But I thought about you said, and you're right. I'm sorry I was such a brat about everything and so naive-,"

"Shh," Peter cut her off, but not unkindly. He sighed and slumped against the side of the doorway, investigating her some more. Had it been another woman, his eye line would have lowered on the tight, wet clothing hugging her curves. Yet not with Claire. He kept his gaze on her miserable face, the chattering teeth that she tried to conceal, and the goose bumps on her arms. There would always be some sort of respect in that soft spot he harbored for the former cheerleader. She was more then just 'the rest.'

"Guess we're even now," he finally replied, a little smile in the corner of his mouth as he threw her words from long ago back at her. Just that one response brought a beam to Claire's face and a weight lifted off of her shoulders.

As much as he fought to get rid of the overprotectiveness and empathy, Peter was the same old sympathetic guy he'd always been underneath his rough façade. Perhaps it was a helpful trait, though. One must be self-sacrificing if they're to waltz into a firefight and save their allies, like Peter had done so many times.

He stepped out, put a protective arm around her, and brought trembling Claire Bennet in from the cold.

xxx

Five minutes later, Peter was in full hero-complex mode, already having Claire wrapped up in a large blanket, with a mini-heater pointed at her swollen feet. Her face shone beet red all throughout his sudden fussing, and Claire found herself trying to be polite as possible while telling him that no, she didn't need his shirt; her clothes would dry themselves.

And even through all the helpfulness, barely a word was spoken between them.

The lightheartedness died a tad when Sylar came back from downstairs, his usually curious personality coming into action again. When he saw Claire curled up in the blue recliner next to Peter's, his _tick _screwed out of balance.

She was a beautiful, blushing young woman on one side, but on the other, a vicious atom bomb and traitor to the world of _them_. Sylar personally didn't know where to stand, but he was naturally civil to everyone he met either way.

"You're back," he noted lightly to her, fighting the temptation to shoot Peter a "Huh?" look.

Claire's amiable expression drooped, and Sylar recalled her lack of warm feelings towards him.

"Do you want anything to drink?" Sylar offered, beginning to feel slightly awkward. He rubbed his neck and waited for a reply.

Claire wet her lips. "Um…sure. Is there any coffee?"

"Possibly," nodded Sylar, noticing Peter's steady gaze at him from the other side of the room. "There's certainly enough chai to sink a boat."

"Sylar's boyfriend Mohinder keeps shoving it down our throats," Peter wryly explained, earning him a nasty, unamused look from his brother. Sylar waved an arm and sent a vase flying at Peter's head, which Peter managed to redirect at Sylar himself. The other man ducked, letting the ceramic split into crumbs after hitting the wall behind him.

It wasn't over yet, though.

Sylar flicked a finger at his side, making Peter abruptly smack himself in the face.

"Ow!"

"Stop hitting yourself," snotted Sylar, giving Peter a couple more self-slaps before turning on his heel and going into the kitchen to fix Claire some coffee.

Peter grumbled something incomprehensible, rubbing his cheek, which didn't just redden from the impact.

_Boys, _Claire sighed affably.

"Claire!" Sylar called, going back to the divide between the small kitchen and the chandeliered, cathedral ceilinged living room. "Want any sugar or-?"

Claire began to get up. "Oh, I can make it myself!"

"No," Sylar insisted a little too fiercely. "Trust me; the coffee maker only works for me."

The young woman sat down, head bowed. First, she'd pitched more than one tantrum to the two men, and _ran away, _and now she was being treated like some sort of _guest_.

By _Sylar _of all people_. _

And to think that twenty-four hours ago, Claire was getting home, stripping down to comfier clothes, and popping in a TV dinner before going to bed. Just another day in her everyday, _normal_ life. Or, as normal as being the FBI's super shield could be.

But, Claire had learned, normal was not about the standard of everyone else. It was about balance and _habit._ She went to work daily. She ate some bullets, and recovered. She stopped bombs (though there was the occasional failed mission, resulting in explosion), she drove cars, and she fired a gun.

For Claire, _that _was the epitome of normal.

However, having the man that tried to scalp her in her cheerleading days being the kind-hearted brother of the man she thought was her uncle…a former uncle that now, instead of being her confidante, was a snarky, multi-addiction holding vigilante…

That was NOT normal.

As well as Peter's short hair to replace those luscious emo bangs. Claire grimly wondered if he was just _trying _to be like Sylar as much as possible.

Yet the Sylar of _today_ didn't seem like the cold-blooded killer. If Green Day barfed on Martha Stewart….well, that was sort of the best description to fit the lanky man. A red sweater vest over a black, long sleeved band tee, with torn jeans. Bright green Chuck Taylors, which were _so _five years ago. It made Claire vaguely speculate if he knew his own strength. And though Sylar seemed nice, could he truly be trusted?

Claire's head ached with the possibilities.

Thankfully Peter, on the other hand, was much easier to figure out. He was more or less the same man, just without a conscience. And the Peter Petrelli that Claire used to know lived his entire life by Jiminy Cricket. So now that it was gone, Peter was a loose canon, a warped bizarro world version of himself. Sleeping with whomever he pleased, not valuing enemy life at _all_, and feeling free to use Sylar as his taunting target on many an occasion.

The only person that Peter was his old self around, his TRUE old self, was Hiro Nakamura. The Japanese warrior remained to be the single person on the planet that Peter respected as an equal, perhaps even a superior. There was no real rhyme or reason for it; the two men simply connected on introduction and saved each other more times then they could count.

"You hungry?" Peter asked her suddenly, pulling her from her observations.

Now that Claire thought about it, she was _ravenous_. Breakfast, a good eighteen hours ago, was the only thing she had to eat all day. So she timidly nodded, feeling rather undeserving of his attention.

Peter detected her discomfort. "I know what you're thinking," he said, unusually apprehensive. "You have a right to be mad. W_e…I_ owe you a lot so don't…" He paused, trying to decide on the right words. "Don't feel like you're a burden."

"I've felt like a burden for the past six years, Peter," she confessed softly, eyes still on the floor. It was a little secret, nothing major, but she was still surprised to find herself opening up to him again so quickly.

Ever since that first time she saw her skin knit together, Claire felt like every person that ever cared for her ended up hurt. Peter was now a starving rouge that _her father_ put on the run. God only knew how many sacrifices Noah Bennet (who she unfortunately had no contact info on anymore and due to the Haitian, probably didn't even _remember _her) made for her in the earlier days. Even Angela, for all her irateness, gave up so much just to keep Claire safe.

Which brought Claire back to the question that stillplagued her, even after all these years.

_What makes me so special?_

"What do you…do here?" Claire changed the subject gawkily, not feeling like talking about herself in the least bit.

"We rescue people like us," Peter explained emotionlessly. "All of Nathan's laws have put metahumans into captivity left and right. There's no way we can save all of them, but we do the best we can."

He shrugged slightly, a tired nonchalant weaved into his voice and limbs. The nighttime lighting and bags under his eyes aged Peter to his actual age of thirty-three, rather then the body and features of a twenty-six year old. Claire's regeneration was to thank for that. It followed through as expected, stopping Peter's aging in total when he hit his prime.

In a couple years, the same thing would happen to Claire, and the ten year age difference between the two would be invisible.

Claire's eyes scanned him up and down, seeing him in a new light. The killing was still frowned up on her view, but at least it was in the name of something noble.

Peter swallowed, hard. "What about you? Why are you even _in _the FBI, Claire? Half the time, you're preaching their Bible, and the other half, it's like you're some sort of prisoner."

Claire turned to face him at last. "I'm there because of Nathan," she replied faintly. "After you left, (Peter winced) I didn't really know what to do. I just went wherever he led me and…I ended up there."

"And since when do _you _go quietly?" Peter arched an eyebrow, remembering hisClaire as being a firm activist in getting what she wanted. _His _Claire was not a follower.

Claire struggled with a response. "I'm not sure. I was just really confused. I couldn't go my way if I didn't know what I wanted in the first place. I hate these laws of course. It's barbaric, but…,"

"Survive or perish?" Peter offered, finally starting to make some sense of her life.

Claire nodded. "I guess so."

Peter ran a thumb across his lower lip. "I think I get what you mean. Sylar and I kind of live the same way. You do what you gotta do to stay safe. Or alive, at the very least."

Claire's entire persona slumped into one of the lonely, soaked puppy with no home. The poor dog that had been put in a cardboard box and abandoned on the rainy streets by someone who was too selfish to think about the well-being of something 'beneath' them.

If it was possible, more hatred then ever for Nathan pumped into Peter's heart.

She read him like a book. "But I don't hold it against him. Nathan, that is. He's only trying to protect me."

"Protect you from himself," growled Peter. "It's his fault that we're in this mess in the first place."

A loud groan of frustration echoed from the kitchen before he could say anymore. "Contraption!" Sylar grunted. Usually, the coffee maker only obeyed him. Today, it had the stubbornness of Herbie.

"Give it some motivation," Peter hollered back.

Sylar poked his head out of the doorway, confused. "Motivation?"

"It's old. What do you think?"

A few seconds later, a loud smack erupted as Sylar beat the coffee maker's on the lid with as much force as he could muster. Right after came the soft trickle of brewing coffee.

A small smile crossed Claire's mouth. She arched an eyebrow at Peter.

"Violence always makes old stuff work," he answered, as if it was obvious.

Sylar waltzed in again, leaving the coffee to brew, and he filled up the last space in the triangle of recliners. Immediately, his attention turned to Peter.

"Did you talk to her about Hiro's sword?"

Peter sat up straighter, a businesslike aura emoting from him. "Yeah; I need to ask you about something, Claire."

Claire was all ears, leaning in to hear him more properly.

"My friend down there…Hiro Nakamura? He lost his sword at the FBI. It was confiscated, and he wanted me to ask you if you had any idea where it is. Like, where they put stuff like that."

"I'm sorry," Claire slumped apologetically. "No clue. It depends on what it is. If it's a weapon, it probably was examined for blood remains, to try to connect him to any murder cases. If it wasn't evidence, then it would be destroyed. If it _did _have DNA on it,then it could go to any number of places…"

"What if it was stolen?" Sylar asked, cocking his head, and Peter internally pouted at his brother's slick investigation skill. Where Peter got the smoothness and strength, Sylar inherited the logic. And normally, Peter remained quite content with his side of the gene pool, but the mildly impressed look on Claire's face directed at _Sylar _made him rethink Mother Nature a bit.

Claire's mouth hung open for a second, partly contemplating the question, as well as wondering if she should trust Sylar. "I…" she began, and a memory from earlier that day flashed before her eyes like a revelation.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, holding up a palm in excited recollection. "I remember! I was walking down the hallway, coming back from break. These two agents that were carrying Hiro bumped into me and I overheard them talking."

Peter's brown eyes illuminated. "Wha-what? What did they say?" he blurted out.

The young woman squinted, as if peering at the memory and dissecting it with her gaze. "They…the sword…it was sent back to its owner. The owner in Vegas!"

"Linderman," the brothers yelled together, looking at one another. Claire recognized the name, having heard it many times in the Petrelli household.

"Wait a minute," she frowned. "That old mobster that Arthur Petrelli worked for? Angela said that he died right before the explosion."

"Yeah, but he had a will, didn't he?" Peter pointed out. "He was filthy rich. His son or someone probably owns all his stuff now."

"Whoever they are, they're obviously still in Vegas." Sylar rubbed the light stubble on his cheeks, looking a little defeated. "But where? It could be any of those casinos, or locked up somewhere that no one would expect."

"Uh-uh," Peter shook his head. "Linderman loved to show off his wealth. I'd only expect his heir to do the same. Ten bucks says that the sword went right back into his gallery."

"No," Claire argued. "If it was stolen from there once, they'd be stupid to put it there again."

Sylar moaned as his head fell into his hands. "Then how are we supposed to find it?" he said practically. "It's not like there's some trail of _clues _that's gonna lead us there. Either we know where it is, or we don't."

"No," Peter said softly. "But there's one way we could jump right to the end." His dark eyes were glazed over in thought, and he smirked a little to himself. Sylar wasn't the only one with a good head on his shoulders.

"Well," Sylar began frankly. "There's always the technical way of doing things, but in this case-,"

"That's the way to go," Peter interrupted, adding a very different conclusion to Sylar's statement then what was originally planned. "Think. There are cameras swarming the place. Surely you could hack into his system, right?"

Sylar's mouth moved open and closed wordlessly. He gave a helpless shrug. Peter continuedand looked at his watch.

"Alright, so Hiro was caught in New York this morning, about nine o' clock. He arrived in D.C a few hours later. They would have examined the sword like Claire said too, even if it was stolen. There would have been no blood, because I clean Hiro's sword every time he kills someone."

"Water doesn't get off all the remains of bodily fluids," Claire wisely noted. "There will always be-,"

Peter silenced her with his index finger and retorted a bit crossly, "I've got a power for it, okay?" He took a breath, recollected his thoughts, and went on.

"So they'd put it on a plane to Vegas after the examination, and we really have no idea when it happened."

"But from New York to Vegas would have been a four hour flight either way, with time zone changes, and even if they left at five, they'd be there by now," Sylar said glumly. "What are you even getting at? It's obviously already safe in its owner's hands by now. And unless we see them _taking it _to its hiding place, then we still won't know where it is."

"It's perfect, though!" Peter cried, standing up. "How can you not see this? It's _good _that it's already happened because-"

"-it's already on record," Claire squeaked, and Peter looked at her warmly.

"Yeah," he breathed. Peter blinked a bit fuzzily and turned back to his brother. "All you have to do is break into their system, replay the footage, and search for where the sword went."

Claire understood every word, having been close to Chester in the security camera booth. Nowadays, all the footage was downloaded directly to a database rather then onto VCR tapes. Though it was more convenient, the FBI was forced to bring in the top hackers in the country to set up enough firewalls to protect the system. This was the very reason that Claire had a hard time believing that Sylar could hack Linderman's cameras.

"Are you sure it can be done?" she hesitantly asked. "There'll be a ton of firewalls and probably dozens of cameras. You'd have to search through _days _of footage if you could even get to it in the first place."

"I can do it," Sylar nodded nonchalantly. "The only walls I couldn't get past were the CIA's. Those were too strong."

"How do you expect to hack the_ FBI_?" Claire insisted, a little harsher then she intended. But he was _Sylar _after all, so what else did he deserve?

"I can see how thinks work," he replied plainly.

"Then why couldn't you make the coffee maker work?" she shrilly retaliated with a lame hit below the belt.

Sylar's eyes narrowed. "I can't fix things that are beyond repair."

"Ahem," coughed Peter, interrupting the spat. "Can we return to the point?"

The cold glint in Sylar's eyes washed away with Claire's pouty lips as Peter steered them back onto the road.

"Sylar. By this time tomorrow, have the location tagged, okay?" Peter stared. "I'll teleport to Vegas and fetch it. As for you," he turned to Claire wearily. "Get some sleep, and help him tomorrow. You worked security, didn't you? Your knowledge might be able to help get us in."

Claire gaped at him like a fish, shooting an offended look from Sylar back to Peter. She had to work with Sylar? Dealing with the killer was one thing. Being civil with him was another. But getting buddy buddy in a work environment and spending _hours _trying to accomplish something?

Was Peter freaking _insane_?

Peter arched an eyebrow at her, daring her to snap back, and her mouth closed. Claire sighed and wrapped the blanket tighter around her, accepting her assignment. She'd spent three years doing something she hated. A project with Sylar would just be another day at the office.

"Fine," she grumbled. "Make sure to get me up early tomorrow."

xxx

That night, after a bowl of noodles and crappy cup of coffee, Claire decided to retreat to a room that used to be owned by a "Ruth." It was on the far side of the upstairs, away from the staircase and the others. Ruth's room almost felt like a separate wing itself. It made Claire assume the prostitute was the "Belle of the ball" in her day. The ruby red walls speckled with diamonds might have had something to do with it too.

Unfortunately, though Ruth had a lot of space and a room that remained rather clean after all the years it spent rotting in Boston, the woman had no clothes fit for Claire. The brunette agent would have been content with wearing her current clothes the next day (they just needed a little drying) but that still didn't mean she had anything to sleep in.

So Claire stripped herself of her mismatched clothing and the uneven high heels until she was down to her original black undergarments. A vanity across from the bed slumped against the wall, and Claire caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror.

But that wasn't the only thing she saw.

"What are you doing here?!" she yelped, whipping her head around at Sylar. The young man immediately covered his eyes, turning redder then the chipped paint on the walls.

"Sorry! I-I just came to bring you these," he exclaimed, eyes downcast and a large hand overhanging his brow. For his fault, Claire had to give him credit for at least _trying _not to get another eyeful.

"That?" she asked, a tad nicer, gesturing to the cloth in his hand.

"Yes. Clothes."

He outstretched his hand with the attire, still refusing to look at her, and Claire tentatively took them from him. She had to admit that these were much better then the strange combination of getaway threads she grabbed to leave with. Sylar picked out a pair of jeans and red polo for her. Plain, normal, modern clothing.

"Thank you," she told him honestly, unconsciously hugging the clothes to her bra-clad chest. "These are really good."

"Good, then," Sylar replied awkwardly, now boring holes into the peeling ceiling. "Peter still had them lying around for some reason. They belonged to a girl about your size, so they should fit. But if they don't, tell me and-,"

"I will," Claire quickly said, beginning to feel embarrassed herself. Not only was the mental image of Sylar helping her pick out clothes utterly bizarre, but a good part of her wondered what '_Peter had them lying around' _meant. Even in this messed up universe, Claire knew Peter wasn't quite that freaky, so they obviously belonged to a girl. A girl that Peter slept with…

A nasty feeling entered her gut and Claire tried to shake it off. _Why wouldn't he have a girlfriend or two? It's been three years and he hangs out with a bunch of men. He'd go crazy without SOME girl around. It's good that he found a bit of love. A woman can keep him straight. _

But then the musings of 'some girl' came after. _Did she have abilities? Did Peter _**save her**_ too? _

"Well, goodnight," Sylar mumbled, and he turned on his heel and left. Claire walked to the bed and let her body crash down upon it. The clothes that Sylar brought fell beside her, sprawled out across the comforter, and Claire idly ran a hand across the polo.

The soft rustle of jeans and loud creaks of footsteps could be heard behind her and she turned around. Peter leaned languidly in the doorway with clothes in hand. Claire rolled her eyes and sat up, beginning to get sick of all these older men walking in on her while she was in her undies. Hiro better look out, because if he was next…

Peter, unlike Sylar, wasn't quite as conservative. His eyes remained on her face, sure, but definitely wasn't embarrassed near the round top of Claire's perky breasts and her tanned curves. After all, it was nothing he hadn't seen before. Within the first year of knowing Claire, he got to see her in a more revealing bikini than this lingerie. And he was her _uncle _then.

"What?" she sighed with irritation, and Peter held out the clothes. These, unlike the ones on the bed, were much more old, plain, and less feminine. Quite _masculine,_ actually.

"Some clothes for tomorrow," Peter explained, placing them in Claire's hands. The young woman held up the t-Shirt to her eye level. It _was _a man's shirt, just as much as the black shorts in her other hand were boxers. Peter's boxers, in fact, if the size and warm smile on his face were any indication.

Claire gave him back his stuff, making Peter feel rather dejected, and she impatiently pointed to Whatserface's garments on the bed.

"Sylar already came by. He said they belong to you too."

Peter's face fell and he sheepishly scratched his neck. "Right."

"Who was she?" Claire asked indifferently, busying herself by slinging the wet clothes over the wardrobe to dry. Though her tone was casual, she secretly liked watching him squirm for once. It reminded her of the older Peter. _Her _Peter.

"Carmen," Peter replied automatically, but then a doubtful look crossed his face. He looked at the clothes a little closer and chewed it over. "Actually, no. These were Linda's."

"Oh," was all Claire could say to that. So there wasn't a special woman alongside Peter. There were several _nameless chicks _that he obviously didn't care much about. How could she have been so naïve to believe that after all Peter had become, and all the shell-shocked women he encountered, that he would somehow be celibate?

"I remember now," Peter pointed towards the polo and jeans, and Claire _really _didn't want him to go on. "Linda Mars. Atlanta. She could control plants or something. Almost got ourselves killed getting out of that place, but we escaped in the end."

"She was someone you rescued?" Claire confirmed quietly.

"Mmm-hmm," Peter murmured absently, running a finger over the frayed cuffs of the jeans. He looked up and saw the lost expression on Claire's face.

"Don't be jealous," he said resignedly. "I've saved lots of people, but…" Claire met his intent look. "…you'll always be my first."

_I'm a mission_, Claire thought gloomily. _Just a weapon for the bad guys and a mission for the good guys. That's all I've ever been. And Peter says a barcode is the only thing that can take away humanity…_

"And, about Sylar," Peter lowered his voice, changing the subject. "He's really a good man. Better than me, at least. He doesn't remember anything before Kirby Plaza, and we haven't told him much about it. Hiro and I are afraid he might relapse. So don't go mentioning anything, alright? Just try to get along with him as he is now, instead of thinking about what he was. Because that part doesn't matter anymore."

Claire reluctantly nodded, vowing to keep Sylar's heart a secret from himself. But could she really get over his wrongdoings in her own heart? Could she truly forgive him for murdering her best friend in cold blood, harming her mom, and trying to kill _her _on many an occasion?

Perhaps Peter was right. She needed to simply focus on him as if he was a total stranger with a utterly clean life history.

"Well," Peter chirped briskly, tucking the clothes under his arm. "Since you're all good, I guess I can go."

He went to leave, but a tiny hand on his arm stopped him.

"Wait!" Claire said abruptly. Peter wore mixed emotions, most of them being in the 'confused' category. Claire gently took the t-shirt and boxers from him, letting the old material slip out from his clasp.

"I need something to sleep in," she said, trying to put on an amiable tone. Peter's glumness illuminated back into his normal, smooth charm almost instantly.

"Fine," he shrugged coolly. "They're yours."

Their eyes locked for second, reminding Peter of those stares that always lasted a little moment too long every time. This time, he broke it off before it reached that point, nudging her a little in the arm with his fist before leaving the room without saying goodnight.

Claire threw Peter's shirt over her head and brought his boxers up her legs, surprised at how well they fit her in the waist. Then again, Claire was so curvy and Peter so narrow waisted, their measurements were probably rather close.

She flipped off the lamp and buried herself in the covers, pleasantly uncomfortable (if that was a plausible oxymoron) at the natural warmth Peter' t-shirt seemed to emit. Claire briefly wondered if he was wearing it before he brought it over just to warm it up, but then banished that thought. It was revoltingly silly; a ridiculous thought from a silly little girl.

Meanwhile, Peter laid in his own king bed, tossing around and searching for sleep. It was rare occasion that he slept alone, usually having the woman they'd saved most recently spooned up against his front. The fully-clothed, all-together innocent girl, for the most part. Because for all Sylar's scathing remarks, Peter wasn't quite as promiscuous as he was branded.

To a degree. Peter _did_ enjoy women.

Mostly, the feel of a female's warmth, of her skin, the scent of her shampoo…the pulse of her ability being soaked up into his own body. All of that was what really intrigued him. It was Peter's first addiction, the prelude of many other, different ones to come.

Tonight, he only had his ratty pillow to hug close to his body. A feeling was ignited in his gut again and he couldn't extinguish the fire. It burned more than usual, for he was so close to something he didn't want to desire_. _So close to warmth, and perfume, while all the ghosts of the others still remained in his sheets.

He didn't even _want _to feel like this. Every time before, Peter welcomed that chemistry and attraction, practically invited women into his bed and arms. But no, not this time_. This time_ was so much more…it scared, annoyed, and frustrated him all at once with its empty spaces and intrigue.

Later, he would look back on this as the loneliest night of his life.

xxx


	6. The Holy Grail

**Thanks for all your reviews!**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this. I may rock sometimes (as if) but I still don't own Heroes. Le sigh.

**Chapter Five**

"**The Holy Grail"**

Peter naturally woke up at seven in the morning off the bright sun striking him in the face through tattered blinds. At first, he jolted up in bed, the strange feeling of not knowing where he was overcoming him. But the familiar walls around and off-white sheets pooled at his boxer-clad hips was a pleasant reminder.

A cinnamon laced aroma speckled the scent of the air, and Peter heard the clank of pots and pans in the distance. The kitchen was quite a way away from his room, Tiffany's old sanctuary, and he only could hear enough to confirm that someone was making breakfast downstairs. Most likely Sylar, since the brother seemed like the only dab hand at cooking in the house.

Peter yawned, wiped the sleep out of his eyes, and slumped back against the headboard. It wasn't much, but it was home.

The loud thump of footsteps and a female voice murmuring things to herself carried down the hall. The man in the bed fell back against his pillows again in alarm, feigning sleep as Claire passed his doorway.

The footsteps stopped.

Through his eyelids, which were slitted open _just so, _Peter was able to see bed-headed Claire, all cute and wearing his bed clothes, peeking into his room. The unbelieving smirk that settled on her lips told him that she wasn't fooled by his fake sleep, yet she said nothing and turned away, off to get some of whatever Sylar was cooking.

That particular prospect was what dragged the lazy man out of bed. Though there was probably nothing to worry about, the revolting mental image of Sylar and Claire frolicking in the meadows together would _not _leave Peter alone. His paranoid side got the better of him when it came to the right partner for Claire. Perhaps it was the overprotective uncle instinct still kicking in after all these years.

Peter repeated that to himself until it stuck, and headed downstairs.

xxx

Later on, after Sylar and Claire were full of homemade French toast, the amnesiac led the girl to his "secret lair." Really, it was actually the former 'private room' for male visitors back in its day that Sylar stashed all of his tech junk in. However, Claire was forced to mask her awe at the place. It really did feel like the Bat Cave.

"Is Peter gonna help?" Claire asked casually, as Sylar booted up all of the computer screens and LCD monitors.

"Uh, no…," Sylar replied absently, most of his attention focused on typing in passcodes for everything. "He's keeping Hiro company in the basement."

"Oh," murmured Claire, feeling slightly disappointed. She'd hoped that if she had to work with this man, then she could have at least had Peter lurking around, keeping an eye on things. Though her tolerance for Sylar had risen up a few notches in the last twenty-four hours, there was still that odious feeling in her gut that told her something was not right about him.

But that was ridiculous to begin with. She didn't need stupid _Peter _to look out for her, to _protect _her. Claire Bennet worked security for the FBI, for Christ's sake. She could most definitely hold her own against a moderate threat.

"Sit down," Sylar offered amiably, pulling up an extra rolling chair to the desk, beside him. In front of them sat the largest computer monitor of all, the one that Claire presumed they'd be working with foremost for this particular project.

Sylar stuck an earpiece in his right ear, cracked his knuckles, and began hacking away.

Claire's green eyes nearly crossed off the complicated coding flying across the screen, and Sylar's fingers typing a gazillion words a minute. The boy sure did know his stuff, or perhaps it was some sort of memory power that was responsible for his expertise. Whatever it was, Sylar's purpose in this whole underground cops and robbers thing finally revealed itself to Claire on a tarnished silver platter.

"Are you the only one that can do this?" Claire asked weakly, keeping the ""P" name out of there purposefully. "Out of the group, I mean."

Sylar nodded. "Yes. Peter could if he wanted, but he's much too lazy to learn." He wore a faintly disgruntled look. "Pete's always been the fighter."

Claire scoffed humorlessly. "Funny how you're the nice guy and Peter's the murderer now."

"You shouldn't judge him so quickly," Sylar gently chided her. "He kills, yes, but don't soldiers as well? They're welcomed home as heroes for protecting what they love, even if it resorts to such measures. Peter's that sort of man, too. It's a war out there, and he fights for our rights." He paused, and then looked around a bit as if gathering his thoughts. "I believe that Peter is simply a good man with a lot of problems. Addictions, sins, wrongdoings. True, the road to Hell is paved in good intentions, but anyway…"

The woman weighed his words carefully, sensing a lot of truthful perspective in them. Yet, Claire also felt that there was something Sylar hid away from her in his sibling-worshipping speech. "But still; is this what you want? To be cooped up inside while he gets to go out and save the world?"

"I've thought about it before," Sylar shrugged, attempting to seem nonchalant, "and I've ultimately decided that I'm happy here. I used to think that you had to save a girl from a burning building to be a hero, but I've learned my place in the grand scheme of destiny. I guess you could call this my evolutionary imperative." Claire noticed the small smile he wore, and it took her a minute to remember that she was talking to a former psychopath; a man that, in the past, probably never smiled and meant it.

They stayed silent for the next few minutes, the only sound in the room being Sylar's furious tapping on the keyboard. Eventually, things started to unfold before Claire's eyes, as Sylar finally entered Linderman's mainframe.

"We're in," Sylar muttered, sitting up in his chair a little straighter.

"But now what?" Claire inquired. "All of his stuff has firewalls that even the best hacks couldn't get past. How are you gonna do it?"

Sylar grinned cheekily, a look that totally morphed his face. "Connections."

He minimized his window, taking him back to his desktop (the wallpaper of which had a giant clockface on it), and opened an obscure instant messaging program.

"I hope he's online," Peter's brother mentioned, a drop of concern lacing his tone. "If he's not, then things will be seriously complicated."

It wasn't too hard to decipher the "him" that Sylar referred to. After all, there was only one username listed in the 'friends' section: **EliteHaxerz. **The sigh of relief to her right and the red outline on the name proved to Claire that whoever the guy was, he was most assuredly online.

Sylar sent him a brief message: **Need some help. Please?**

**EliteHaxerz: **Sy! Hey! How's Molly?

**Pointofnoreturn: **She's well; so is Mohinder. But right now, I really need you to get past some firewalls for me.

**EliteHaxerz: **Again? You really should be paying me.

**Pointofnoreturn: **Micah. is glaring at you

**EliteHaxerz**: If I'm in Vegas, how can you be glaring at me?

**Pointofnoreturn**MICAH. DO NOT AGITATE ME.

**EliteHaxerz:** Oh, fine. Where do you need it?

**Pointofnoreturn:** Linderman's security cameras.

**EliteHaxerz**: Linderman? grrrs Why didn't you just say so?

**Pointofnoreturn: **Because you were too busy asking how your girlfriend is.

**EliteHaxerz:** WE ARE PLATONIC. (But I can't say the same about you and Uncle Mo…)

Sylar was starting to loose his patience. "Teenagers," he grumbled under his breath, provoking a smirk from Claire. Even the smart kids could be total pains in the ass when they wanted to.

"What's with your username?" Claire giggled a bit.

"It's from Phantom of the Opera," explained Sylar. "First movie I ever saw. That song stuck with me."

**Pointofnoreturn: **That is quite uncreative. But really, if you and Molly got married, and then I was with Mohinder for some odd, twisted reason, I'd almost be your father in law. So do as I say.Can you get us in?

**EliteHaxerz:** Actually, you'd be my mother in law. But sigh. Give me the link, then wait a sec.

Claire and Sylar exchanged glances before the man did as Micah Sanders requested. Within a few seconds, "Access Granted" appeared on the screen, and Micah replied back.

**EliteHaxerz:** There. Happy? Now how do you get past this stupid three-headed demon in _Blade Quest? _

**Pointofnoreturn**: Thank you Micah. :) I'll tell you later. We're in a hurry.

**EliteHaxerz:** Prolly better that way. Momster's making me get offline now.

**Pointofnoreturn:** Listen to her. Go take out the trash or something. Video games will rot your brain.

**EliteHaxerz:** O.o

_**Elite Haxerz**__ is away. _

"How did he-?" began Claire, utterly baffled by how a kid could break through all that stuff in less than ten seconds.

"His ability," Sylar expounded. "Technology does whatever Micah tells it to. He used to need physical contact with it when he was a kid, but now he can control other people's computers from long distance. I believe that if he wanted to, he could mentally tell every ATM machine in the country to spit out thousands. Among other things."

Claire's chest tightened at the huge threat the national security that the young boy could provide. "Is he branded?" she whispered, almost afraid of the reply.

"Unfortunately so," Sylar gravely answered. "Right now he's on house arrest. When he turns eighteen they'll take him to a state detainment center, away from his family. The only good thing he has going for him is that they don't know his potential. The FBI tagged him when he was rather new at his power, and they don't see him too dangerous. His mother was sent to a penitentiary shortly after, but Peter rescued her."

Claire frowned slightly, remembering what Peter had a habit of doing with women that he saved. Sylar seemed to read her mind.

"Don't worry. She was still grieving over her husband's death at the time."

Claire now felt guilty about fearing Micah. Her concern turned to pity; poor, pitiful, sorrow for the innocent boy. She thought back to being sixteen, when she manifested. What it would have been like to be a prisoner in her own home because of something she couldn't help…no school, no friends, no enjoying youth…and a father dead on top of all that. Then, as soon as he turned adult, it would only get worse.

Her job's division didn't deal much with mutant laws and such, so Claire had no honest idea about the terror that really went on in some people's lives because of this new society.

The FBI truly went too far this time.

"Okay," Sylar muttered. "This is where I'm gonna need your help, Claire."

The girl leaned forward in her chair, peering at the screen. On it was a list of _thousands _of video files: all of Linderman's security footage. She already suspected what Sylar was going to ask.

"If they returned the sword to the Corinthian, then where would it be? And when?"

Though Sylar had got Micah to hack into the _streaming _cameras, a la live mode many times before, he'd never handled an archive full of these files before. Though the man was certain that he could eventually figure it out, having Claire there to immediately explain it made things much smoother.

"Well, the file names will tell you a lot," Claire suggested, her voice now switching into a businesslike tone. "The first number is the floor, or level. The words say where it is. That last number is the date and time. Like '23hallleft wing0407400' means that the footage is on the left wing hall, on floor 23, on April 7th, at four o'clock in the morning. These files are each an hour long. Most databases start deleting the old files after a week. Judging by the dates, I'd say that this system does the same thing."

The corner of Sylar's mouth turned up in appreciation at her knowledge. "It happened yesterday, April 10th. So that would be 0410?"

Claire smiled back, feeling oddly loose. "Yeah. And the last number would be anywhere from 1200 to 2000."

"Military time. Understandable."

Using the information they already had, Sylar and Claire narrowed it down to 500 hour long files. It wasn't a picnic, but it was much better then the never ending list of file names that sat before them. Sylar dragged and dropped the group onto his harddrive to save them and get out of Linderman's system before someone caught on to them.

After everything was successfully downloaded, they narrowed down their selection once again, by the sheer fact that some places were impossible to be hiding a sword. The craps table, for example. In fact, most of the cameras that Sylar and Claire uncovered were pointed at various parts at the downstairs casino. The only upper level floors that bothered with cameras at all were four, twenty-three, and thirty.

"Thirty is most likely the penthouse suite," Sylar mused. "Only VIPs would stay there, so the security would be an extra measure."

"Then what do you think? Four or twenty-three?" Claire asked, biting her lip.

Sylar squinted at the screen, dissecting it in his mind.

"Twenty-three. There are more cameras on that level."

He was in the midst of opening up all of the clips from level twenty three when a cluster of files caught his eye.

_23vaultroom0410_

Claire caught it too. "Vault room?"

"It has to be in there," Sylar said in an awed monotone. He dragged and dropped those files into Windows Media Player and lo and behold, they had a full view of a small room full of multi-sized safe boxes.

From one o' clock to two o' clock, and then from two to three, and even from three to four, there was nothing. But at exactly sixteen hours, forty seven minutes and twenty one seconds, the door to the vault room opened.

Sylar pressed his fingers to his earpiece, listening carefully at the dialogue exchanged. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he beckoned Claire closer to him.

"You have to hear this," he hastily instructed, tilting the ear piece so that she could get right up against it as well. Sylar felt her cheek brush his and he shivered at the contact.

"_This really ought to go back in the gallery, shouldn't it?"_

"_Not by Linderman's orders. It must be really valuable."_

"Linderman," Sylar insisted, pausing the video. "His post-mortem orders?"

"I think they're not talking about that Linderman," Claire pointed out realistically. "It's probably just his son."

Sylar still disagreed, keeping his mouth shut, for Claire's family was much more connected to the Lindermans than he himself ever was.

"Ah. And look," he whispered, pressing play on the video again. "It's going right into that far safe over there, the tall one. Combination…" He listened intently to the tones that the keypad made. "Fifteen, thirty-two, twelve."

"How can you be sure?" Claire gaped.

"Super hearing and a good memory," Sylar breezily told her. He paused the video again, and pushed back his rolling chair, tilting it towards the door. "PETER!!!!!"

The other brother took his sweet time moseying over to their hideaway, but eventually, Sylar and Claire watched Peter's lanky frame fill the doorway.

"Find anything?"

"_Everything_," Sylar beamed, pointing towards the plasma screen. Together, he, with the help of Claire, went on to explain where the sword was hidden, down to the very specifics of the combination.

"Nice work." Peter gave them each an approving nod. "I'll get dressed and teleport out there in a few."

xxx

Within ten minutes, Peter had his usual trenchcoat and boots on, ready to head out for the daily adventure. Sylar watched him lace up his shoes from the computer desk, thinking back on what Claire mentioned to him. Sy did his part, but was that really the same as being a hero? Or was Peter simply hogging the glory and stringing his own brother along? Peter convinced Sylar to jump on this bandwagon in the first place by telling him that this was a new start, a time to find a purpose.

And after three years, Sylar still wasn't feeling it. There was a difference between his evolutionary imperative and his reason for _being. _He'd helped, but he didn't feel like he'd _done _anything.

He felt…disposable.

If Claire was in the room, he would have discussed it a little deeper with her. Through their partnership in the past few hours, he felt her warm up to him, a definite plus in his point of view. But alas, Claire was upstairs in the bathroom, after claiming with a blush that the orange juice she drank for breakfast had "gone right through her."

"Do I need a mic for this one?" Sylar barely heard Peter inquire.

"Probably," Sylar admitted, fishing in the bin beside him for a clip on mic and earpiece. "You'll need to be able to communicate to me so I can unlock doors for you."

"Unlock?" scoffed Peter. "I can rip doors right off their hinges."

"No!" exploded Sylar abruptly. "You can't leave ANYTHING behind, Peter. You need to be silent as a grave and leave no marks. Get in, take the sword, and come back. If we're lucky, then it will be a while before they even realize it's gone. And remember to stay invisible the whole time, no matter what."

"Yeah, I know," Peter rolled his eyes, clipping the small microphone onto his lapel and placing the earpiece in like a hearing aid. "You act like I've never gone on a mission before."

"There've been lots of close calls because of your recklessness," Sylar retorted darkly.

Peter stood up, ready to take off, when he looked around with a frown on his face.

"Claire's not gonna see me off?"

"What; you need her permission?" Sylar snapped back, still irked at his brother's carefree nature.

Peter stuck his hands in his pockets. "No. Just, you two seemed to be getting along well this morning."

"Wasn't that the point?" his brother rejoindered.

"Sure," Peter shrugged awkwardly. "Just…don't get too close, you know?"

Sylar looked up from the computer screen, blinking. "Um. What?"

"She's not gonna be sticking around here forever," Peter answered, still remaining casual. "And it's not like she'll be able to help us after she leaves."

"Oh. Alright…" Sylar gestured to Peter's equipment, changing the subject. "Is everything working?"

"I think so," nodded Peter, instinctively touching the plug in his ear. "I'll tell you if I need anything."

Sylar nodded back, specifically noting that Peter said 'anything' as opposed to 'help.' Peter himself threw a furtive look towards the doorway, yet it still lingered empty.

He teleported away before his brother could hear him sigh.

xxx

Teleporting while having no clue where you're going is often very dangerous, but Peter had no choice this time. Focusing on "the twenty-third floor of the Corinthian" remained to be the only thing he had to go on, and when he was met with muzak and jiggling, he was sure he'd failed. But once Peter opened his eyes to find himself looking back from a perfectly polished elevator mirror, he reconsidered it.

The elevator slowed to a stop, and a red '23' winked at Peter from above the door. Any other doubts were abolished from the golden 'Corinthian' plate beside it. He'd taken a bit of a detour, but for the most part, the teleportation was a success.

Now all he had to do was find the vault room.

Turning invisible, Peter strode into the hallway at a quick pace. He took a second to absorb his surroundings, noting the polished tile floors (good for sliding), plain white sheetrock, and office-like florescent lights (nice weapons if there was nothing else). If he didn't know he was in a hotel, Peter would take this as an office or hospital.

"_Can you hear me?"_ buzzed a voice in his ear.

Peter tilted his face towards the mic on his collar. "Yeah," he whispered back, looking around in paranoia. However, there was nobody to be found on the floor so far. "I'm on my way."

Keeping to his word, Peter let his lapel flap back down and headed left. Left was always good. It wasn't the instinctual choice by most humans, and probably more likely that something valuable would be hidden that way.

Unless Linderman's security counted on their captor to realize this, and put it on the right side of the level out of spite. But Peter crossed his fingers that Linderman had a legion of the generic "IQ of 100" goons.

He met company once he turned the bend, taking him into a larger hall. Nothing harmful, and no infrared, so Peter still was invisible to all eyes. Yet, his adrenaline still spiked to a skyscraper level when he just barely brushed up a guard as he passed. Luckily, the man noticed nothing, and Peter was able to reach the end of the hall.

Twenty minutes of circling the whole premises and there was still no freaking vault room. As he practically stomped around, fuming in frustration, Peter began to wonder if there was actually no such thing. If it was, like him, invisible. Simon and Monty would probably accuse it of being in the Room of Requirement, Harry Potter geeks that they were.

Peter stopped, reflecting on what he'd just thought about. His…nephews? No. Not anymore. Nathan's sons. Claire's brothers. Nothing more. Because that would make Claire his niece, and _him _First Brother, or First Uncle, or SOMETHING that was almost as revolting as "The Sy'laire Problem."

It wasn't that he had a problem with his brother, or anything. Sylar'd treat Claire wonderfully, but Peter had his own problems wrapping his mind around that _image. _His two friends making-out against a wall….lying in bed post-coital…it was just _weird_ and brought up a burning in his chest like acid.

God, why was he even worrying about this again? Just because Sylar was making eyes at the girl didn't mean she would automatically leap into his arms. Peter just had to keep an eye on thing, for even after six years, a drive within fueled him to look out for Claire at all times. She was the only one, save for Hiro, that would make him feel guilty about things. Give him a _conscience. _It must have been 'destiny's hangover' or something like that.

He shook it off and continued on his mission.

"Are you sure it's here?" he hissed at Sylar.

"_Positive, unless Claire was lying about the file information."_

"_And I wasn't!" _came an indignant voice through Peter's earpiece. Claire. She came down after all.

There was a muffle as the mic was passed from Sylar to Claire.

"_Peter, it's me. Have you checked any of the rooms?"_

"Some of em'." Peter replied defensively.

"_Are there any rooms that you haven't checked that a sword could be at?"_

"There's the security camera room, and the gallery-,"

"_Check the gallery."_

"I can't get in without being 'silent as a grave'. Oh! Wait…"

Now Claire and Sylar heard muffling, and they looked at each other in fright as Peter stayed silent for a short while.

"Thank you _Lord_," Peter sighed when a nameless guard headed towards the gallery door, obviously out to get in. Peter held his breath and crept close, slipping into the gallery behind the guard. He was immediately assaulted by the smell of 500 year old oils and canvas, and resisted the urge to cough.

An older woman with auburn hair sat boredly at the front of the gallery, pouring over a large, antique book. _The curator, _Peter assumed. But when he squinted, the aura and sight she presented seemed a tad too uppity for that. She was probably anywhere from fifty-five to sixty in age, but could pass for mid-forties. No curator would be that Botoxed up and in such designer clothes.

She glanced up towards the door, frowning as the guard walked up the aisle to talk to her. They spoke in hushed tones that Peter could have interrupted if he wished, but right now, he harbored bigger duties.

A brightly lit room at the rear caught Peter's eye. He padded over to it, slinking behind the woman and the guard, and took a closer look. Peter poked his head in, and off the very tip of his vision, he spotted a large metal door with a circular handle on the front.

A vault.

"Found it," he murmured into his mic, looking back suspiciously at the talking couple. They heard nothing, too enraptured in conversation to bother with invisible intruders.

"_Sylar's already brought up the combo for you."_

Peter allowed himself a small smile, silently thanking his brother for thinking ahead. He twiddled his fingers impatiently in front of the vault while he waited for Sylar to relay him the numbers.

"_One, one, three, eight, seven, four, seven." _

Peter pressed the numbers in as fast as his fingers would allow, cringing as each tap on the lock made a loud beeping noise. The woman looked back into the room, her face stretched with shock, and she abandoned her post to check on the vault.

But when she arrived, there was nothing there. The vault was closed, locked, fine. However, the security monitors said otherwise.

A young man, hair as dark as it comes in an outfit that was nearly as black, kneeled in front of the row of lock boxes, looking ready to open one. The red-head pounded on the door, trying to open the lock. But though the keypad remained in tact, the door wouldn't budge from its frame.

Peter smirked at their efforts as he sniffed the odor of melted metal in the vault. He used a combination of a couple different powers to weld the door to its edge. Perhaps they wouldn't be foolish enough to use metal next time.

He quickly recalled the number that Sylar gave him for the sword, and retrieved the katana with ease. As far as he could tell, it was in perfect condition, not a scratch on it. Mission accomplished.

However, Peter obviously had some time….and there were so many other lock boxes….

Screwing the whole 'don't leave a mess' ploy, since he'd already been discovered anyway, he unceremoniously ripped to door off the small box at eye level. He didn't know what to expect; money, jewels, property deeds.

Peter, nonetheless, certainly did not expect a simple manila folder with some papers in it.

"What the…" he said, pulling out the folder and flipping it open. Some black on white clearly had to be pretty damn important if it was this locked down. Information wasn't too bad a find. People paid a lot for information.

Still, this pile of algorithms and crap was Greek to Peter. Apparently, the whole project, _whatever _it may be, was named TD-5301, and it had something to do with the Smithsonian. Like that told him anything. The only pages that made any sense were the last couple, which were drawings, schematics.

Of a machine.

Before Peter could get an inkling of what _kind of_ machine the sha-bang was, the room went totally pitch black. _Blacker _than black, actually. It was like all the light just washed out of the room, and Peter was falling, falling through never ending space. He felt suffocated, uncomfortable, and he grabbed onto Hiro's sword protectively.

"Now would be a good time to get out of here," he said to himself, before clenching his muscles and preparing to teleport away.

A large, fiery slash across his face interrupted the process, and it took a couple seconds for Peter to get over the surprise and feel pain. When it finally struck, the agony was such that he felt inches away from death itself. His screams, terrible cries that burned his lungs, echoed off the walls of the vault. The left side of his face felt like it had been skinned right off of him, and for a moment, he thought it had.

Yet, when Peter smashed his palm onto his cheek instinctively, everything was still there. Though his skin practically burned his hand with heat, and the smell of burning metal was replaced with burning flesh.

Maybe he'd just forgotten what pain felt like after six years without it, and if that was the case, there was only one person that could balm whatever the hell just happened to him.

So he closed his eyes, screaming in anguish, as he thought of Claire and teleported home.

xxx

**I'd also like to mention that I have made four screenshots for this chapter. The link to them will be up in my profile shortly.**


	7. The Mark of The Beast

**Chapter Six**

"**Mark of the Beast"**

In Washington D.C., Nathan Petrelli paced the Oval Office, brow furrowed in worry. The past twenty-four hours had been a living hell. All of that time was spent examining the crime scene, which they oddly got nothing out of, and on top of that, Nathan had yet to hear anything about that patrol he ordered from Elisa Thayer. Granted, things like that took time to get set up, but couldn't they work a little faster to get his Claire home safe and his former brother sent to the chair?

Elisa stormed through the doors, and for once in his life, Nathan was actually happy to see her.

"We have a lead on the location of Claire," she announced once all the secret servicemen left the room.

Nathan's knees almost went weak. "Where?"

"Boston," Thayer nodded. "We did a search to see if _Mary Whetsill _used her credit card at any time, and surprisingly, she did. Claire's card showed up at a Hot Spur in Boston."

"If she rented a car, then she could be anywhere," Nathan's bright expression slumped.

"All those cars have trackers in them nowadays in case they get stolen," Elisa informed him. "I've sent the agents up to Boston to interview the employees and track the car. It'll lead us right to her."

"I'm going to accompany you," Nathan stated firmly, and Agent Thayer bit back a scoff.

"Not possible." She stared a death match into his hazel eyes. "It's too dangerous, and I'm not about to lug around six Secret Service men to make sure the leader of our country doesn't get any papercuts."

Nathan wasn't going down so easily. Having lived around Angela Petrelli for the past forty-two years, he knew how to hold his own. "This is my daughter we're talking about," he seethed.

"And thisis_ my_ mission," Elisa retorted back. "As head of it, I forbid you come along." She leaned in, glaring. "Do I make myself clear, Mr. President?"

"My child is not a bargaining chip," Nathan glared, still not backing off. "Not anymore."

"Oh really?" Thayer chuckled cruelly. "You know, that bar-coding room is _just _up the hall from where she works. Wouldn't it be a shame if she stumbled inside and the branders mistook her for what she _really _is?"

Nathan silently fumed.

"Besides…won't you be far too busy with another bill to pass? Doesn't sound like something that should be abandoned just because Claire's gone MIA." She winked and nudged her head towards the manila folder on Nathan's desk labeled _The Mutant Purification Act. _The final bill of its sort. The one that required all individuals with abilities to be executed.

"And after you pass that law," continued Thayer, circling Nathan like a vulture ready to dive into a pile of dead meat, "it would be even _more _heartbreaking if someone discovered the truth about Claire. Sent to the gas chambers by her own father. What a legacy."

Nathan exercised his right to remain silent, having a million things to say, but knowing his place in these matters. All he could do was stare daggers at Elisa's devious chiseled features and pin straight red hair. He should have seen it coming, really. Nothing good ever came out of a devious red-headed woman. Mary, Queen of Scots. Lizzie Borden. And now, Agent Elisa Thayer.

xxx

"We have a problem," quipped the familiar voice of Linderman on the other line. Twenty minutes later, Elisa was clip-clopping down the hall with a cell in her ear, searching for privacy. "And?"

"Someone has broken into the vault, and they saw the schematics. Before we could intercept him, he teleported away."

Elisa nearly screeched in shocked fury right in the middle of the hall, before ducking into a corner and quietly continuing her conversation.

"He teleported?" stopped Thayer, immediately thinking of her current case. "Like Peter Petrelli…"

"Petrelli can teleport too?" Linderman's brow furrowed. "We'll have to see. The intruder was marked before he left, so if we see a burn on the side of Peter's face, we'll know it was him."

"If we can find him. He's kidnapped Claire, and Nathan's having a cow. We're looking for her as I speak."

"Abandon that," Linderman ordered. "If the thief got an eyeful of those papers, he could bring the whole plan down. Especially if it was Peter Petrelli."

"We need to find Claire," Elisa snapped back. "Without her, we have no power over Nathan, and we've lost millions in FBI dollars without her ability."

"I'm sure he has other weaknesses, Elisa. We just need to push the right buttons. And find another indestructible agent if you're so worried about funding. Heavens, child, don't you _think_?"

Elisa stayed silent for a few seconds, shaking her head in contemplation. "So what _now?_ I've already sent the team after the girl."

Now Linderman paused, pondering Elisa's previous statements. "You say that Peter kidnapped Claire?"

"Yes," Thayer replied impatiently. "So it would be more convenient to do as Nathan says, rescue the girl, and bring in Petrelli with her."

"It would kill two birds with one stone," Linderman admitted, hmming. "Then it's settled. If Peter has the scar, then kill him immediately. He's too dangerous to be kept alive. If he is unmarked, then follow through with Nathan's agenda, and find a way to bring him to me personally. He could be…useful."

"Understood," Elisa answered. "I'll call you back when I've intercepted them."

"Well chosen, dear." Sophia Linderman's voice softened with a spark of affection. "And be careful, Elisa."

The widow and her daughter hung up the phone at the same time

xxx

It wasn't the first time in his life that Peter Petrelli arrived back in Boston with bloodcurdling screams.

His cries of distress reverberated off the cathedral ceilings of the brothel, drawing the attentions of Sylar, Claire, and Hiro. The three clambered up, all leaving from separate parts of the house and joining together in the living room, where Peter writhed on the floor in pain.

Claire kneeled down beside him, trying to pry Peter's hands off his face. They wouldn't budge; he had the left side so clutched in his grasp the Claire suspected there would be nail marks in his skin soon. Which drew up the strange question of why there wasn't a drop of blood in sight. Something so painful must have drawn blood, shouldn't it?

Peter opened his eyes, teeth still gritted, and he relaxed a little upon sight of the brunette girl. She was living proof that he was home again, and in the light, as opposed to the fiery darkness that engulfed him in the vault. It didn't ease the foreign agony pressed under his palms, but it did sooth the soul.

_Make it stop, Claire, oh God…it hurts so much. Claire, Claire…help me…_

"Shh, shh, what happened?" Claire whispered, impulsively going to brush back his hair. Her small fingers stopped at the verge of the black locks, however. Peter didn't have hair fit for stroking anymore, no sleek strips of shining ebony that fell evenly back from his forehead. His hair today reminded Claire of a thick mass atop his skull.

Peter was two inches away from cracking a tooth his jaw was clenched so tight. "I dunno," he managed to croak, a sharp sting shooting up his cheek as he moved his facial muscles.

"Get his hands off his face," Sylar instructed, squatting down and pinning Peter's legs to the floor with all his strength. Peter's lower half stopped squirming in the stronghold as Claire peeled off Peter's hands rather easily. His power and tolerance now drained, he simply watched through bleary eyes as Claire's face transformed into one of bewildered shock.

"Oh my…" She couldn't even finish a coherent sentence to express the ten thousand thoughts whizzing though her mind. Claire felt dizzy, unstable. The sight before her was that incomprehendable.

Peter passed out, his head lolling to the right to give her an even better view of the ugly crimson burn that streaked from his temple down to his jaw. A _burn. _Claire had walked through fire several times in her life, even getting roasted from head to toe in some cases, and she always came out good as new. Why was Peter still retaining a single wound? Did his power not work anymore? Could _her _power no longer save him?

Sylar and Hiro exchanged looks over Claire's head of the same nature.

"This seems like something Mohinder should see," Hiro suggested, digging in his pocket for his cell with the non-slinged hand.

Sylar nodded mutely and turned back to his brother. He let up the hold on Peter's legs and crossed to the other side, facing Claire with Peter's body between them.

"I don't understand," she whispered, running a finger down the mark that was still warm with invisible flame. "How could this happen?"

Sylar stared at her, shaking his head, as he grimly replied, "There's always a bigger fish."

xxx

"I simply have no way to explain it," Mohinder sighed, pulling himself away from Peter's bed and leaning against the vanity. The young man lay on his mattress, ice packs masking the mark on his face as he slept with even breaths. Mohinder and Molly rushed over as fast as they could after Hiro called, and now all five companions gathered upstairs to discuss their latest catastrophe.

Mohinder paced, continuing. "As far as I can see, it's a terrible burn, but I can't fathom why he's not healing. I know it's not his regeneration to blame; I cut his shoulder to test it and that wound fixed itself. Even the skin around the burn is spotless, while to wound itself remains. I just…it's impossible…"

"I guess not," Claire gritted out in a harsher tone than she meant. "Somebody _did this_ to him, and they knew how to overcome our ability."

"But Peter didn't run into anyone," Sylar pointed out from his spot against the wall. "We were listening to him to whole time. He was alone. And even if he _did, _some of the people we've met have no clue of their potential. Peter may've scared someone and their instincts flared up."

"How could they have given him a wound that won't heal?!" exploded Claire, earning four loud shushes from the people around her. Peter groaned and twitched in his slumber, but did not wake. Claire gazed at him sympathetically before turning back to the group and lowering her voice. "I've never found anything that can hurt me. _Anything. _Metal poles, fire, bullets, knives…I heal from everything that hurts me."

"It's like I said, though," insisted Sylar. "Mohinder describes this whole process as an act of evolution. But God is a violent and random creator! Who's to say that a being wasn't created to supersede the abilities of another? It's possibly a step forward in the evolutionary development. A stronger power than any other naturally created to be better, perhaps even evil. Because there always has to be that balance. Without evil, the definition of good disappears."

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" Molly asked in a small voice as she sat beside Peter on the bed, not taking her eyes off him. "Peter needs to rest."

There was a murmur of agreement, and Hiro, Sylar, and Mohinder filed out of the door. Claire turned back and watched as Molly planted a chaste kiss to Peter's forehead before following them. Molly's action stirred up nostalgia in Claire. The sweet sixteen, weepy-eyed teenager that was a little bit in love with Peter Petrelli. Of course, Molly was allowed to dream such thoughts. Claire, on the other hand, was forced to let those feelings wither and smolder until they slipped through her fingers as a fine grey sand.

Just like all the warmth and care that Peter used to emit, corroded away by a hard life. And now, there was finally a scar to prove it.

xxx

It was night by the time Peter awoke, and the icepacks on his face now contained a cool slush of melted contents. He came to without a sound, slowly slipping into consciousness without a movement until the creak of his door startled him.

Claire flipped the light switch and he groaned, sitting up and letting the bags of water slide off his face. The girl smiled and shut the door before padding over to his bed.

"How does it feel?" she asked softly, helping Peter sit up.

He pressed a couple fingers onto the mark, wincing. "Still stings."

"Then don't touch it," Claire smirked good-naturedly, earning a half-hearted smile back from Peter.

"How bad does it look?" he said seriously, not sure if he had the courage enough to look in the mirror himself. And by the solemness that Claire's expression sank into, Peter suspected that it was pretty awful.

"Um…it's not in a bad place," she remarked, attempting optimism. It fell flat.

Peter took a deep breath and looked to his right, seeing himself, his now _scarred _self, staring back from the mirror. The ghastly red abrasion scraped all the way down his face, obliterating any attractiveness he may have worn before. Now, people would be much too distracted by the hideous scarrage to see his lovely grey-brown eyes, cute crooked smile, or soft, coal-colored locks.

"If it's any consolation," Claire said quietly, with a timid touch to Peter's shoulder. "You got the sword back."

Peter let a gloomy chuckle escape his lips. "Mission accomplished."

Throwing all politeness and acquaintanceship to the wind, Claire leaned forward and sat next to him on the bed. "Look, Peter, it might not be permanent-,"

"Claire," he cut her off, staring at his lap emotionlessly. "Just…go, alright?"

He asked as politely as he could, considering the circumstances, so Claire didn't wait to be told twice. If Peter wanted some alone time, she'd grant it. Pressing the issue would only start another stupid, pointless fight, and even though she suspected it was probably more caring to stay and comfort him, both of them were much too tired to follow any code of manners.

"You sure?" She unconsciously rubbed his shoulder, a gesture he used to console her with whenever a boy would break her heart, or she'd flunk an exam. Yet those were the years when it counted. Petty problems that didn't need to be fixed, but they'd be a shoulder to cry on for each other anyway. A teenaged Claire would always push her best friend Peter away for a few minutes, just to be dramatic, when all she really wanted was to sob all over him. And of course, he'd see right through her teen angst, and talk her down from it, and the next day it'd be no biggie. But today, with the real problems, the troubled ones truly wanted to be left alone.

Peter didn't blink, or even make a movement that he felt her ministration. "Yeah," he rasped.

"Okay," Claire replied simply, letting go and heading towards the door. She turned back to look at him, right before leaving, and parted her lips to say something. The words got stuck in her throat though, like her vocal box got dipped in tar, and she closed her mouth.

The next thing she closed was the door.

It took Peter a few moments to gather himself once Claire went downstairs. He picked his lazy body up off the bed and stumbled to the vanity, taking a hard look at his marred reflection.

He needed to get plastered. Disgustingly plastered. The yearning for a hard drink on his tongue had never been so great, and even a boxful of lemon PEZ couldn't come close to fulfilling this craving.

Sylar made sure that the house had no alcohol of any sort, even the isopropyl kind, as to keep Peter from smashing himself. However, there was a little pocket of secrecy that the harlots left behind: an old time safe box in the back of the closet, where the broads kept all of their profits.

Peter found it more useful as his stash.

He ran to the other side of the room, ripping clothes off of hangers to get to that box in the back. At last, he slid the wall panel over and found it, stock full of various alcoholic beverages. Anything from beer to vodka. Tonight, however, Peter plucked a healthy sized bottle of whisky from the back, breaking the glass neck in half with his bare hands. The drink burned his throat, but he welcomed that tingle. It was the only thing in his life that could really comfort him these days.

He vaguely regretted this, with Claire and Molly in the house, and he _knew _he would hate himself later for it, but weakness blinded his morals. Pleasure was now, and it was good, and that's all that mattered.

xxx

"Mohinder, it's a stronger being!" Sylar argued with his friend, while the Indian man shook his head hotly.

"That's ridiculous," Mohinder retorted. "If evolution just took a leap forward, why would it take another so soon after? Evolution is a slow process that takes millions of years to show it's development."

"Aren't there some sorts of…" Sylar waved his arms around, looking for the words, but only coming up with a lame "…mini evolution?"

"Some creatures adapt in different ways, yes, but I'm certain nature intended the metahumans all to be on the same plane. Why would it create life forms just to destroy the new ones?"

"Maybe nature realized it made a mistake," Sylar gravely put forth. "Molly and Shanti had a disease that only attacked people like us. Why? The same reason_ this_ has emerged, Mohinder. Nature messed up!"

"It's a mutation," Mohinder disagreed. "They are incredibly random and there's bound to be mistakes."

"Break up the science talk," sighed Claire, coming down the stairs. "Not-so-smart brains are present."

Mohinder shot her a mildly dirty look, and cocked his head towards Molly. His sixteen-year-old daughter, after the time she'd spent with him, probably knew more about DNA and Darwin than Mohinder himself.

"Okay," Claire amended. "Not-so-smart _brain._"

"How's Peter?" Sylar asked, voice saturated with sincere concern for his brother. Claire sat down next to him on the couch.

"I dunno. He wanted to be alone."

"He's awake?" Hiro sat up suddenly, the clank of his sword sounding in motion with his body.

"Oh, yeah, he is. Really depressed though. I don't know what to do. I mean, how do you deal with someone that's just had his world rocked like that?"

"His left side's a bit rugged," Sylar replied sullenly. "It's not good, but it's hardly the end of the world."

Claire frowned at him. "Vanity aside," she replied back with a voice like thin ice, "this totally shatters any faith we have in our abilities. You probably don't understand much, but it scares_ me_, guys. To think that there's stuff out there that could hurt me and Peter…" She looked hopefully from Hiro, to Mohinder, to Sylar, but all of them failed to return her look of passion. Claire sighed and pursed her lips, realizing that there was no way to make them relate to this, no matter how sympathetic they were.

xxx

The next half-hour was silent except for the sounds of Hiro sharpening his sword and music overheard from Molly's headphones. Sylar, sick of it, headed to the tech room to shut off his equipment.

The room was easily ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house, humming and alive with all of the machinery. Sylar wiped a small bead of sweat off his forehead before searching for the main power grid.

Just as he was finishing up, a loud crash erupted in the distance, and his ears perked up. Moments later, Claire rushed into the room with her brown hair rippling behind her.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered.

"Yes," Sylar replied monotonously. "Stay down here, and tell the others to leave. I'll go upstairs and see what's the matter."

"But-,"

Sylar peered down, his lanky frame towering over her by more than a foot in height. The expression that lined his face, aging it's youthful skin, told her not to argue.

"Trust me," he muttered darkly. "If it is what I think it is, then you don't want to see it. And neither does he want you to."

A sneaking suspicion and all common sense told him that it would occur at some point, but maybe Sylar just trusted people too much. He _trusted _Peter to keep himself under control, and was that really such a crime? Peter was a grown man. He knew better.

Yes, as Sylar trudged up the stairs to go face his nightmare once again, he knew exactly what was coming. Which, though it gave him time to brace himself, it's still a rotten thing for a cow to know it's headed towards the slaughterhouse. It was his worst fear, the absolute finest dread in his heart to experience this side of Peter, which now laid just on the other side of the door.

Sylar abandoned manners and didn't bother to knock.

Peter didn't even flinch when his sibling entered, for he was much too enraptured by the broken glass bottle held in his weak digits. Crimson mixed with spilled liquor pooled on his palms for a few seconds before his regeneration powers kicked in, and the liquid life trickled back into his body.

"Why won't it heal?" he mumbled, and Sylar wasn't sure if Peter was talking to him or the wall.

"Peter?" he slowly asked, closing the door behind him with a soft _click. _

Peter turned bloodshot eyes onto his brother, only half-recognizing him. "Sy?"

"Yes."

"Where's Claire? Everyone?"

"I sent them home. As for Claire, I told her to stay downstairs. I didn't think you'd want any of them to-,"

"See me like this," Peter finished coldly.

Sylar sat next to him on the bed, careful not to make any sudden movements. He always made himself keep two eyes open around his intoxicated brother. For even though Peter had never been an angry drunk, the type of drunk he _was _had almost worst symptoms.

Peter caught his own reflection again in the mirror, that hideous burn on the side of his face, and he let made a noise, a mix between a snort and a sob. Oh, God. This was what Sylar had been afraid of.

From several occasions of the same nature, Sylar happened to learn that Peter Petrelli was a very overemotional drunk. Lots of angst. Lots of dry weeping. And even worse, some suicidal tendencies as well. Not exactly something your average Joe would have anticipated, but after all those late nights of holding his brother's sobbing, alcohol laced frame, Sylar knew it to be the bona fide truth.

"What am I gonna do?" Peter spat, half-garbled. "I can't go out …like….this!"

He halfheartedly threw the remains of the split bottle at his vanity mirror, but even that was enough to crack the poorly made glass, and then he collapsed to his knees in weakness. Sylar's eyes filled with a mix of anger and pity, and however much he detested Peter for giving into this addiction, he was still kin. They shared blood, a womb, and for the past three years, a life. No matter what he'd done before his amnesia, that had been a constant all along.

"Come on," Sylar gently sighed, wrapping his arms around Peter. He managed to guide his flesh and blood to the bed, where he laid Peter down. Turns out, brother was more like _mother_ in events like this.

"Sylar, I can't-,"

"Shh. Try to get some sleep."

Peter clutched his throbbing head, still gritting his teeth. There was always just enough of Peter's real personality in his drunken alter ego, enough to hate the weakness that alcohol brought out in him. He despised being emotional, and had too much pride to let anyone see. However, his body and conscience were disconnected by the drink, and the quiet whines came anyhow. Sylar once tore into him about it, demanding why he'd want to take something to make him hate himself in the morning. _Why_?

_Because I need to feel SOMETHING_.

There was nothing to live for anymore. All Peter's family was gone, save for Sylar. He had Hiro, but his best friend was always off on some mission. He had no love; just a bunch of women to keep him busy. But lust of all things was still an incredibly strong emotion, and it remained to be the best quick fix for him.

It was always so _empty _at the end of the day,though. Peter's heart was designed to be empathetic and caring, and this life was beginning to take its toll. Little did he know, emotions, and other people were like soup for the soul. Take them away, and there was nothing left, really.

Peter'd spent the last three years trying to be a hero, trying to save the world, _trying _to fight against this hopeless cause and always coming back with slugs in him, or a limb missing. What was worth it? WHAT was he even fighting for? He didn't know these people he saved. They could all be reckless buffoons that deserved their fates.

All these things….the promiscuity, the alcohol……they were games of make-believe. They took him out of his actual self and placed him into an avatar, a man that had no problems. Some hotshot that didn't care what other people thought, and did what he wanted.

Peter tried to be like that, be the rouge. But man, it didn't feel right.

"Don't…Sylar…," breathed Peter, shuddering on the bed, and his brother held him still with two strong hands.

"Take a deep breath. Everything's going to be fine."

"No it's not," Peter cried. "It's…I don't even…God…"

He was talking nonsense now, trains of thought that he was far too inebriated to put into words. Sylar quietly shushed him some more, eventually getting Peter to lay exhausted and panting. The absentminded rivers on the shorter man's face slowed to a calm, and after a few more minutes of serene consolations and comfort, sleep took pity on Peter.

That went…well. For a drunken fit, it was actually rather tame. Oh, had Sylar walked in on some doozies before. When Peter first started drinking, Sylar once opened the door to his brother's room to find a delta of blood flowing out and soaking the hem of his pants. Peter spilled enough of it out of his veins to wade through, yet Claire's essence still came and made it all better.

Except this time. Perhaps that's why Peter was so torn up about it. Claire couldn't help him now.

Peter's room was a wreck after his rampage for drinks, a danger zone. Sylar inwardly cursed the angel on his shoulder as he picked up his heavy brother and carried him to the next room over, getting him out of that disaster area. Peter was now in an alcohol induced slumber, and a freight train wouldn't arouse him.

Sylar unceremoniously dropped Peter on the twin bed, wincing at the _thud _of a body hitting a hockey puck of a mattress.

"It's for your own good," he said wisely, before leaning down and brushing his lips across his brother's forehead in a chaste kiss goodnight. Sylar wasn't normally a compassionate person, but he still felt compelled to be so in this instance. Pity and love were two sides of the same coin.

xxx

The Hot Spurs on Green Street, Prim Lane, and Mall Drive were all spared walk-in visits from the FBI. The Hot Spur on Reed Boulevard wasn't so fortunate.

Agent Marcus Ferguson led the team of seven, dressed proper but indiscreet. Too good for the FBI, but not quite nice enough for the CIA. He instructed his comrades to wait in the car, save for one attractive looking female agent, and headed into the rental place.

For some reason, beauty was a good intimidator. It gave Marcus and his current lady accomplice an edge before they even started.

"Can I help you?" piped a sales clerk at the front desk. His white, oval name tag read _Chad. _

"Sure Chad," smiled Marcus, already reaching into his breast pocket to pull out his badge. The college-aged clerk had eyes as big as Area 51 UFOs when he set eyes upon the gold leafed hall pass.

"There's a girl we're looking for. Her name is Mary Whetsill," expounded the woman, Jeanne Alberta. "She rented a car about a day ago, and we need to see the tracker on it."

It was against Hot Spur's policy to do such a thing. All the tracking devices were kept under lock and key, lest someone tried to steal their merchandise. But these were agents, and the human mind naturally had a thing about shiny badges and instructions: see the shiny badge and you better _follow _those instructions.

"Right this way," stammered Chad, leading them behind the bar and into the back room.

It was all done using GPS, of course. A single computer that could map out the location of every car. New technology never ceased to amaze Marcus Ferguson.

"We've got a Versa in the hands of a Mary Whetsill right now," announced Chad, scrolling through the database. "Give me a second to bring up the map."

"We can be patient," Alberta said impassively.

Chad made no move to strike up a conversation with the two looming characters. In fact, the young blonde was shaking in his figurative boots. He'd seen movies where this stuff happens. Two shifty agents walk in, act casual, then BLAM! Anonymous employees with their brains splattered on the wall.

Ferguson minored in Psychology in college, and he had several years of training to boot. Chad's fears were evident to him as if they'd come up, unraveled themselves, and did the polka.

"Calm down, son," Marcus rolled his eyes. "We're not here to kill you. We just need the info."

Which was now up. Chad hastily zoomed into the Versa's location. It was parked, only had been driven a little in fact, and now rested fifteen minutes away on the outskirts of Boston.

"Excellent," nodded Ferguson, memorizing the address. "Thank you for your time, Chad."

The student turned around to reply, but all he saw were their shadows racing along the wall as they left the rental shop.

The boys back at the frat house would _never _believe this.

xxx


	8. David and Goliath

**Chapter Seven**

"**David and Goliath"**

Sylar didn't like visitors.

Perhaps it was just his paranoid intuition, or the fact that after his first experience with one, he became an outlaw mutant along with his brother. Or maybe because he had no friends, so really, who could be coming to see him anyway?

No, Sylar didn't like visitors. Especially at eight thirty at night.

The pucker-shaped knocker thundered against the front door for the second night in a row, prompting both Sylar and Claire to jump. Sylar put his fingers to his lips, gesturing for Claire to be silent, and he mentally dimmed the lights.

"Who is it?" she hissed.

"Don't know. Go upstairs and I'll tell you if you need to wake Peter."

Claire nodded and obliged, tip-toeing up the staircase as Sylar crept towards the front door.

"Miiiiikeeeeey!!!" sing-songed an aged female voice from outside the door.

Oh lord. Not _her. _Not…

_the Reba. _Or 'Miss Piggy' as Molly sniggered behind the woman's back.

They probably would've been better off having a S.W.A.T team at the door. Reba Swanson, the landlady for the estate, was quite possibly _the most _annoying woman ever born. Standing at barely five feet tall, she must have weighed two-hundred pounds (the hairstyle that she should've given back to Marge Simpson five years ago weighing a good thirty of that), her voice never quite hit puberty and still remained it's little-girl squeak, and her IQ could not have been higher than 110. The latter was the only advantage, making it easy for Peter to super-persuade her into letting the rent slide.

But now, Peter was drunk as a frat boy, and Sylar was positive that without his brother's "helping hand" there was no way Reba was gonna walk out of her abandoned brothel without cash in her hands.

"Shit," Sylar sighed bluntly.

"Anyone home!?" hollered the squeaky voice again, and Sylar viciously swung open the door before Reba could knock again.

"Drew, sweetie!" Reba beamed, inviting herself in. "Where's dear Mikey?"

Giving out there real names wouldn't exactly have been a death sentence, but pseudonyms were used as an extra precaution. Not to say they weren't gonna pass up a tongue-in-cheek moment, though. According to Reba, Sylar and Peter were named Drew Abbot and Mikey Costello. Danger traded in for sarcasm, every time.

"Er…what do you need him for?" Sylar stalled, already having a hefty inkling of the answer.

"The rent, silly boy!" the landlady piped, fluffing the large, grey beehive on her head with her cracked red-fingernails. "Now, I'm patient, and you know I adore you both, but I really must insist that it get paid. You two've been weeks for the past three months, you know..."

"I'll go get him," Sylar replied quickly, closing the front door behind him and brushing past Reba. "Stay here!"

Reba waved a hand nonchalantly and sat down, turning her back on the young man as he clambered up the staircase.

Sylar nearly slammed into Claire rounding the corner to enter Peter's room.

"We have to wake him up _now_," he ordered sternly, already crossing to his brother's bed. Claire's eyes widened in worry and she peeked down into the living room from the hall railing.

"Who's here? What's going on?" Claire whispered frantically, following Sylar back into Peter's room and closing the door. Peter groaned and swatted his hands as he began to come to, with Sylar's help.

"Landlady," Sylar grunted, still shaking Peter. "She wants the rent."

"Right now?"

Sylar looked up at her, his eyes narrowing impatiently. "Oh, I dunno_. Sort of_."

Claire rolled her eyes, not having time for his sarcasm, or for musings about Sylar's uncalled for snappiness. He was normally the sweet one, but this sardonic nature in times of pressure proved that he and Peter must've shared _some _blood at least. Maybe they were more alike than Claire had taken them at face value.

Hopefully Peter, under all the baggage and masquerade, shared some of Sylar's good traits too. Or at least his _old _persona.

Peter grumbled incomprehendable things as his train arrived at consciousness central. His brother still shook him, lightly slapping him on the face to wake him up even quicker.

"Wha? What do you want?" Peter stammered, rubbing his temple. At this point, he was somewhere on the River Styx between hang-over and wasted.

"Reba," Sylar answered flatly, and Peter immediately perked up.

"You've gotta be kidding," Peter croaked, throat still laced with sandpaper dipped in rice sake.

"Wish I was," the other man admitted. "But no. She's downstairs, asking for the rent, and I need you to convince her that we've already paid."

"Why don't you just _pay _her and be done with it?" moaned Claire, interrupting them from behind. "Is it really that hard?"

"We have no money!" Sylar briskly explained. "Or at least none of it in bills! All our cash is in a bank in Puerto Rico, under the name Ellwood Stigmata."

"Stigmata? Oh I'm sure everyone will buy THAT!" Claire snapped, temper flaring up in her too.

During their spat, Peter had decided that he'd had enough of the whole mortal peril business, and just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. When Claire and Sylar looked down next, Peter was already on his back with his eyes clothes.

Oh no _way_ was Claire having any of this BS today after the way he'd so _jovially _rejected her comfort.

"Michael Peter Petrelli!" she screeched, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling his whole body upright to meet her at eye level. Peter's bloodshot eyes shot open in surprise, and he lay helpless and limp while Claire shook him mercilessly.

"You get up, clear your head, and go tell Professor Umbridge down there that ya'll have paid RIGHT NOW, or so help me God, I'll shove your beer bottles so far down your throat they'll come out your ass!"

Ninety seconds later and Peter was up and about, approaching Reba with faux causality.

"Mikey!" Reba cooed, going over to throw her arms around him. Peter didn't have the strength to push her off, and he scowled at Claire over his landlady's shoulder. This was all her effing fault, anyway.

"You look terrible, honey," Reba fussed, grasping Peter's hands in her tiny, dumpy ones. "You haven't been drinking again have you?"

_As if. I only reek of whisky, keep running into furniture, and look like all hell, _Peter thought sardonically, as his brain cells for wit began to show themselves again.

"No," he lied, shrugging. "Just tired. My friend here's kept me…_busy."_ He cocked an eyebrow suggestively in Claire's direction. The brunette's jaw dropped at his rebuke, as Reba blushed furiously.

"Well, it's good to see you've found someone," she announced chipperly. "But now, and you know how I hate to do this to you, but I really ought to. It's been two months-,"

"The rent," Peter garbled out, swaggering slightly in place. "Right. We already paid that."

"No, I'm quite sure you didn't, dear."

"Sure we did. It was a couple weeks ago!" Lies, lies, lies, and Peter was too intoxicated to realize that he was failing to use his persuasion power. He inherited it from some older man a rather long time ago. And from a girl in Toledo. _And _from that kid he saved on the Mexican border. It was a rather common ability.

"Mikey," Sylar warned, shooting a significant look towards his brother.

"I can't do it," Peter mouthed, glaring. Alcohol was like raw curare to a mutant. It didn't take away their powers, but it most assuredly lessened their control over what they could do. And in the case of Peter, holder of over three dozen different powers (he'd saved hundreds, but like with the persuasion power, there were a lot of repeats in the mix), even a little shotglass could temporarily fry his entire 'hardware' so to speak.

"Now no tricks," Reba wagged a finger, starting to grow restless. "Don't make me put on my angry eyes, Mikey. I'm not leaving without three hundred dollars plus taxes."

"Do you take checks?" Claire stepped in suddenly, and Reba turned around, bewildered.

"W-well, yes, of course. As long as there's money in the account that I'm taking it from."

Claire reached into pocket and withdrew a small wallet, in which she had a few blank checks stuffed for emergencies. This, she could count as one.

"Claire," Peter murmured simply, watching dumbfounded as the young woman pulled out a check and started filling it out. Claire looked up at him, her expression unreadable, and then continued with the info.

"You're never gonna see that money again," Reba muttered smartly. "These boys are sweet, but they don't keep their word."

"Trust me," Claire shrugged boredly. "I won't let them forget it."

Just as she was about to slap the check into Reba's fake-fingernail-tipped mitts, a crash sounded near the front foyer.

Claire withdrew her hand, and Reba clutched her palm closed impatiently. Before any of the four had a chance to answer, eight looming figures filed into the room, each armed with some very nasty looking machinery.

"Everyone put your hands in the air! Down on the floor, now!"

A handsome, dark featured man shuffled his way to the front, his badge already flashing. As soon as he laid eyes on Claire, a smile broke out on his face.

"Mary Whetsill," Marcus sighed.

"Get out," growled Sylar, kneeled between the squad and Claire. Marcus didn't hesitate to raise his hand gun and point it directly at his opposer's chest. Claire inhaled sharply, already seeing Sylar's bloody demise in her mind. Worse, it would be all for nothing; she was the indestructible one.

"What do you want?" seethed Claire, stepping up to the proverbial plate.

"We're on assignment by the President to bring you and Peter Petrelli back to Washington. Speaking of which…" Marcus craned his head to look behind Sylar, and he saw Peter looking drunk and confused in the back of the room. "We'll need you to step forward, Petrelli."

_Why _did Peter have to pick _now _to get smashed and lose control of his powers? _Why_? All hopes of teleporting out of there were history.

Reba, meanwhile, had crumpled to the floor in a fettle position, praying all sorts of biblical lines in what sounded like gibberish. Peter clumsily stepped over her body as he obliged with Ferguson's orders. Claire at him as he got on his knees beside Sylar, the girl's eyes saturated with worry and what-if. But Peter wasn't the man to look up to this time.

A cluster of the agents stepped around them, circling the trio in a human ring of fire.

"I want to see the warrant," barked Claire dangerously. Marcus looked reluctant, but obeyed, pulling a sheet from his pocket and holding it out to her. Claire ripped it out of his grasp and skimmed over it.

"Search and rescue mission for me?" she blustered, looking up at him. "And Peter Petrelli is being charged with kidnapping?"

"The _hell_?" Peter managed to garble, earning a good shove in his back with a gun barrel from the agent behind him.

"The President has instructed us to bring you back to him scratchless. As for your other friend," Ferguson gestured to Sylar, "we know nothing about. He'll be taken in as an accomplice to a kidnapping if he's not careful, though. With Petrelli…"

He frowned slightly and crossed over to Peter, grabbing the kneeling man's jaw and turning his face to show the fiery red scar.

"Where did you get this?" Marcus asked, tapping the scar lightly with his finger.

"Screw you," Peter gritted out, jerking his face out of Ferguson's grip. Marcus let his hand fall, stepping back to get a good look at the trio all at once.

"Petrelli's fate will most likely be death when we get back to Washington," he announced matter-of-factly

Claire glanced sideways at Peter and Sylar, fear swelling up in her chest. Sylar was, as far as she knew, not a healer, and who knows how Peter would react with all that booze in his system. Plus, the man's immune system had clearly not been up to par since he retained that burn on his face.

"If you lay a finger on either of them-," Claire threatened, eyes stinging with wetness. Marcus's expression melted into one of almost sympathy.

"You've apparently suffered from some Stockholm Syndrome," he said gently, holding out a hand down to her. "But you're gonna have to trust me, Mary. We'll take you home, okay? We're the good guys."

Claire looked to her right again. This time, Sylar met her gaze and nudged his head a little towards the agents behind him. Of course. A plan. Peter may have been inebriated by Sylar still had a hefty dose of kickass potential left in him.

"Miss Whetsill?" Ferguson asked, shaking his outstretched palm towards her. "We need to get going."

Claire slipped her hand into his and let him help her up. But when Marcus made the smallest of motions to pull away, Claire tightened her clasp, nails digging into Ferguson's flesh. He narrowed his eyes at her, asking for an explanation, but did not seem too concerned. Marcus Ferguson dealt with victims of trauma all the time, and had been bred to understand their frantic natures.

Yet something made him hesitate and hold his breath. There was nothing about Claire that made her seem fearful at all of her current situation. On the contrary, her face showed one of defiance.

"My name is _Claire Bennet_," she whispered coldly, tugging Marcus's arm and shoving him up against her so that she could hiss in his ear: "and you're totally not the good guys."

Marcus cursed himself for seeing this betrayal coming and not doing anything about. But nothing could have prepared him for how she managed to do it.

The first act was a great diversion and mutiny in one. The tall, quiet man in the middle, whom the agents didn't even know of, abruptly threw his hands out, disarming all nine antagonists without even laying a finger on them. Sylar guided their guns into a single heap near the ceiling, and then mentally pulled them apart until it was raining artillery. The whole move was executed in four seconds, leaving the FBI bewildered.

Sylar knew what he'd just done was a death sentence. Using his powers in public…not only was that illegal (a law that Peter was rather careless about), but Sylar had yet to be branded. Now, he was on the grid. They had his face and address, and it would only be a matter of time before they found out his history and _really _locked him away for good…

But if he hadn't just done it, none of the three would have had a chance. It was like a big game of chess; sacrifices left and right simply to save Private Ryan and earn a taste of freedom.

Those four seconds had been full of even more action. While Sylar bewitched their armed enemies, Claire pulled Ferguson into a tight arm lock, pinning the man's wrist against his back. Marcus howled, squirming to escape her stronghold, but Claire held tight, waiting for the clear.

The other agents all swarmed Sylar at once with their bare fists, and Claire screamed. Luckily, he seemed to hold his own pretty well, sealing himself in an invisible, telekinetic bubble that prevented anyone from coming within a foot of him.

Peter, meanwhile, lay slumped up against the back of the couch, groaning and rubbing his forehead. Claire caught sight of him, as well as the dirty-blonde haired young woman clad in black that started to creep near him, a Swiss Army knife in hand.

"No!" she yelped, with Marcus Ferguson still writhing in her arms. The leader of the pack continued to grumble, shaking his body in the hopes of sending Claire flying off of him.

Claire shoved him harshly up against the wall, and before he had time to react, sent a side-handed chop to his lower spine. Marcus yelled in agony and tumbled to the carpet, temporarily incapacitated by the girl he was trying to 'rescue.'

Now to save Peter. It was the longest ten feet of her life to cross, and time seemed to stop as Claire carefully moseyed to the table where he sat in ignorant bliss. The blonde rival who was slinking in for the kill nearly got there before her….but Claire caught the girl's wrist just as it was inches away, knife in hand, from Peter's throat. Peter seemed oblivious that any of this was happening, still in a daze, and powerless without control over his abilities.

"Uh!" Claire grunted, bringing her leg from behind her and kicking the woman away. She didn't watch, nor care about the knife, and for her lack of concentration, earned a nice slice in her shin. It healed so quickly that she barely realized it was there in the first place.

Peter was staring at her, blinking. She'd almost forgotten he was there, and anger began to boil in Claire.

"You have to teleport us out of here, now!"

"I can't," he said hoarsely. "Can't control it."

"Yes you can!" Claire urged, but the dimness in Peter's eyes showed there was no winning this argument. You'd think a little bit of pressure in the middle of a firefight (a couple bodies landed right beside the pair even as they spoke) would be a nice motivator, but not to a half-asleep, half-drunk, half-assed man.

"Peter" Claire rolled her eyes, hastily digging in her pocket for her car keys. "Go outside and turn on the car. Sylar and I will be out there in a few minutes. _Do not try to drive it._"

"Claire," Peter narrowed his eyes at how she talked down to him. "I'm may not be all here, but I'm not _four_. God…"

He awkwardly took the keys from her, man-pouting, and crouched low as he crossed the room. Claire huffed a little and ducked after him, only to be stopped by Marcus Ferguson's hand on her ankle.

Claire shrieked and tugged on her leg, trying desperatly to free it from Ferguson's iron clutch. Sylar, who was in the middle of wrestling with a tall, black man on the other side of the room, was too distracted to notice the commotion. Marcus leered and pulled out a spare gun from inside of his pant leg, the pain in his back clouding his judgment.

"The President wants you home alive," he gasped, yanking her ankle and sending her tumbling to the floor with a loud "Oomph!"

"But you're the indestructible wonder, so this shouldn't hurt a bit," Ferguson added throatily, raising the handgun to Claire's forehead. The young woman screamed and twisted, trying to keep herself a moving target. However, Marcus was having none of that. Another agent came over and held Claire's arms behind her back. Shooting Claire in the head with another man so close behind the kill zone was dangerous, but this was a group of the FBI's hungriest martyrs Elisa Thayer could dig up.

Claire wiggled as much as she could in her limited continuum of mobility, but she wasn't gonna give in to them. It was either go quietly or fight like hell and have them take you. And Claire Bennet had had enough of "going quietly" for a lifetime. It was time to stand up for herself.

One second, Marcus held the gun steady, a foot away from her forehead. The bang erupted in slow motion, like a broken record to Claire's ears, and in the distance, she could swear she heard a low clamor of keys hitting the carpet. But the next thing she knew, everything was sped up right again…and she was still alive.

After opening her green eyes that she didn't even realized she'd closed, Claire was met with the most unlikely sight. A large bullet, rather than being lodged in her brain, spun between her brows, making her go cross-eyed with its closeness. And when she looked at Marcus's astonished face, then over the agent's broad shoulder, an explanation arrived in the form of a fatigued looking Peter Petrelli.

Claire could see the strain in his neck muscles, the way his brow furrowed so tautly. This one little use of telekinesis was obviously taking everything out of him. A little trickle of blood began to slip out of one nostril as he panted, gasping in for breath in vain. Any more time and Claire would be concerned about an impending stroke.

Finally. with a loud bellow, Peter jerked his hand to the side and let go. Using one last mental order, he made the bullet ricochet through Marcus's skull, forwards once, then back through again; past Claire's ear, and into the head of her restrainer. Once both agents collapsed into death's icy whisper, Peter himself crumbled to the floor, exhaustion claiming him.

Claire yearned to rush over to help him, but right now, Sylar needed it more. The steady rise and fall of Peter's chest set her mind at ease enough to get on her to aid the other brother.

Sylar fought strongly, but his restraint was obvious. He basked in these powers, but when it came to using them on other people…something always felt a little off. Peter felt it too, except only when it came to killing metahumans. This was one of the few morals that the troubled man still held dear. He never harmed a mutant.

So instead of freezing his four opponents on the spot like he could have, Sylar fought in mostly self defense, blocking blows and bullets. But it wasn't enough. He was losing.

Claire knelt down beside Marcus Ferguson's corpse, grimacing as the man's deep brown eyes, once alive with life, now stared up at her shocked and lifeless. He may have been an opponent, but he was still a man. A human being.

A person that Peter just murdered.

Claire felt numb. Sure, he'd done it to save her, but did that really justify the action? A dozen attaboys wasn't equivalent to a "get out of Hell free" card. Especially since Claire noticed, with a lurch, the shining gold wedding band on Ferguson's ring finger. God, he had a family too.

Every since the burning of the Bennet house, Claire had been sensitive about death. Every time she saw a dead body, all she could think about was the people that loved them, their life, their past. If their death hurt. In the end, mutant or not, bad guy or good guy, they were all the same. They all had families, they knew of love and hate, of emotion and heartache, and they all feared the Grim Reaper to some extent.

Claire gently closed Marcus's eyes, giving him one last moment of peace.

She shamelessly reached into Ferguson's breast pocket and took his wallet. After doing the same with the other body behind her, she wrenched Ferguson's gun from his limp fingers, and headed over to save Sylar.

A shot reverberated throughout the room as Claire fired a bullet into the chandelier above them. The piece shook dangerously, and it served as a perfect distraction. Sylar, rather than looking up and scattering for fear of the falling decoration, met Claire's gaze. It told him everything he needed to know.

Sylar abandoned the fight just in the nick of time. He ran to Peter's body with Claire at his heel, the other agents clambering over to them. Claire's sweaty, trembling palm managed to grasp the dropped keys, before following in Sylar's footsteps, Peter in tow, to the front door.

_Crack_.

"AHH!"

_Thump. _

Claire whipped her head around, unable to help herself. Reba, long forgotten Reba, had a baseball bat from the other room in tow, and was literally beating the agents away from the trio. She paid no attention to the gun barrels pointed at her and the stammered warnings to "Cut it out, lady!" All weaponry and cautions were swatted away as Reba swung the bat at blurred speeds.

"Get out of here!" she begged Sylar and Claire in a two second break. "I'll hold them off!"

"But-," Sylar started to protest.

"DREW!!! GO!!!"

Not wanting to waste any more time, Sylar tightened his grip on Peter and turned to the door. With a bat of an eye, he undid the locks and swung the tattered entrance open with brain power alone. Claire shooed the brothers out first, then followed swiftly behind, taking one last look at weakened Reba before slamming the door shut.

"Put him in the back seat of the Versa!" she instructed Sylar, fumbling with her key remote to unlock the door for them as they ran to where the rental was parked. Claire got there first and held open the door for Sylar, as the gangling man tried the best he could to get Peter safely into the car. "Safely" turned out to be more like "toss Peter in and hope he didn't break anything," but they were on the run now. There could never be another second wasted.

"C'mon," Claire wheezed, slamming the back seat door shut and entering the driver's chair. Sylar crossed to the other side of the car and climbed into the passenger's side. By the time he was buckled in, Claire had already started the engine.

"Drive," Sylar huffed breathlessly. Claire looked over at him in horror.

"W-where to?"

"Don't care. Just drive."

Claire slammed her foot down on the gas and drove anywhere but there. And even through all the drama, she still managed to realize with elation that Peter'd begun to lightly snore in the back.

xxx


	9. Passover

**Chapter Eight**

"**Passover"**

Claire drove south for two full hours before the "empty" light on the gas gauge started to blink at her. Luckily, they kept to the city streets to blend into the crowd, and gas stations weren't hard to come by in urban New England.

"Why don't you take a break?" Sylar offered as Claire pulled into a Shell. "I'll drive for a while, and let you sleep."

The heavy bags under Claire's eyes appreciated his proposal. She pulled up to a gas pump and withdrew Marcus's alligator skinned wallet from her pocket. "Thanks. Here's some cash. Buy some food and stuff when you're inside too, but don't use the credit cards."

He thanked her and exited the car, rounding the side to start filling up the Versa's tank. Meanwhile, the bright lights of the station's overhang drew Peter into consciousness from the back seat. He stirred, groaning and rubbing his forehead, and Claire immediately over her shoulder.

The young man appeared like he'd been through the twelve trials of Hercules. Heavy dark spots drooped under his even darker eyes, his normally styled hair was in a flat, sweaty tangle across his forehead, and the ugly scar slashing across his left cheek shone even brighter in the florescent light.

"Welcome back," Claire said softly, a sad smile on her lips. She and Sylar hadn't talked much on their journey so far, which gave Claire a lot of time to think. The two men that Peter killed didn't deserve to die. Yet she couldn't remain mad at Peter, for he'd just saved her life. In fact, she felt slightly airy and high off it. Her pride wasn't much of a fan, though. Claire gave up on needing protection a long time ago, but Peter always managed to get away with it. Perhaps because he was her first hero and she his first damsel? Did that somehow make it special?

"Water," Peter requested gruffly, sitting up.

"Sorry," Claire replied genuinely. "Sylar should bring some back in a couple minutes."

She unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed over the center console to tumble down beside him. "How do you feel?" Claire asked, instinctively brushing the sticky locks off his forehead.

"Basically, hangover-ish," he muttered, cringing and wiping the sweat off his face. He let out a breath, slumping back against the cloth seat. "Except more exhausted."

"I'm not surprised," she said, the dimples deepening in her cheeks. "You strained yourself a lot back there. I was…" The little delight on her face was abruptly wiped off. "I was kind of afraid it was gonna kill you."

Peter snorted. "Nah. Worse things have killed me and I'm still around, right?"

"Yeah," Claire responded vaguely. "I guess."

Peter finally seemed to sense her discomfort, and there were probably a billion reasons he could blame that awkwardness on. The fact that he saved her life again explained the blush on her face, and maybe him murdering a pair of SWAT dudes in front of her eyes prompted the sad aura around her. More significantly, seeing him in his alcohol induced state caused her downcast eyes.

And perhaps that clumsy tension between them, so long there that they should have gotten used to it by now , really…perhaps that's what caused Claire to wring her hands nervously.

"You okay?" he asked her, cocking his head to get a better view through the brown hair curtaining her face. Claire didn't know the answer to such a question. Was _she _alright? What was she supposed to say?

Thus, Claire lamely replied, "Sure. I'm good…" She mentally smacked herself for her lack of vocabulary tonight, and impulsively added, "Thanks to you."

"Me?"

"You saved my life. Again." There was a pause. "Thanks."

Peter looked past her, out the window. After a few moments, he smirked back.

"So am I still-," he put on a high pitched voice that was supposed to be an imitation of Claire, "-_totally your hero_?"

Claire let out a good-natured laugh, punching him lightly in the shoulder. The ice was officially broken, even if Claire was pinker now in the face than she was before.

"I thought you'd forgotten about that," Claire admitted sheepishly.

A bit of the old Peter came out in the smile he gave her. "Could never forget that."

The light mood spurred relief in both. Claire was happy that this didn't turn into another fight like so many of her and Peter's conversations in the past couple days. But Peter saw something deeper, something that gave him unknown selflessness to actually voice aloud what he was about to say.

"I'm sorry you had to deal with this," Peter whispered. "I shouldn't have pushed you away and turned to..." He looked away as he trailed off, his final words unspoken but still deeply understood by both of them. But what brought Peter even more shame was the fact that it felt like all he'd said to her since being reunited was a lot of slander and "I'm sorry." Though, at least he didn't leave the apology unsaid.

Claire worked on a response. A simple "thank you" was too insincere and would add another brick to that wall of awkward tension. One step forward, two steps back. She wanted to ask him when it all started and why, yet that was too personal, too inappropriate. Once upon a time, she could ask him anything, but they'd already moved past happily ever after and into the _real_ ending that nobody wanted to read.

"_This_ isn't so bad, though," Peter began, sensing her curiosity. "A couple years ago, right after I ran off…_that _was when I was a real mess."

"Is that why you left?" Claire timidly put forth. "Was this some sort of secret you had, and you didn't want to bring the family down?"

"Oh, no," Peter shook his head vehemently, honestly. "All these problems and stuff…none of it started till later on. The actual reason I left was…" he stopped, then gazed down at his hands. "…_is _for me to know."

She looked over at him seriously, once again not sure what so say. So she decided to resort back to the good ol' days and whispered, "You can still tell me anything, Peter."

He tilted his head so that their eyes locked again, and Claire's stomach flipped.

"I know," Peter replied. "But not this time. I'll just say that I thought I'd gotten over it a long time ago. I'm not so sure anymore, though."

Their intense gaze didn't break, and Claire honestly wondered if they were going to sit like that, staring at each other forever. Her field of vision narrowed, and soon, all she could see was a pair of deep eyes, the deepest black ringed by gold-flecked hazelish brown. That weird color that matched no one else, but still wasn't unique enough to draw attention unless you _really _cared to look.

"Okay," she said back, barely audible; a squeak more than an actual word. Claire didn't want to upset the balance and harmony; ruin the moment by speaking. But unfortunately, her efforts were all in vain. Sylar chose that point in time to loudly opened the driver's door, right when it was starting to get a bit too comfortable again between the estranged friends.

"Peter, you're awake," Sylar noted, holding out a steaming Styrofoam cup to his brother. "I got you some coffee for the headache. Two creams, two sugars."

Sylar's knowledge of how to deal with Peter's hangovers struck Claire as out of experience with the situation rather than brotherly intimacy. It reminded her, for the who-knew-how-many-ith just how different the world was.

"Thanks," Peter took the warm cup from him gratefully. "I love you, Sy," he weakly said.

"Yes, I know. And _you know_ that I don't have to do this," Sylar grumbled good-naturedly. "When I signed up for this job, there was nothing that prepared me for being your caretaker."

"Blood agreement. I'd do the same for you."

He clapped Sylar on the shoulder as he climbed between the two front seats, eventually landing in the passenger side without even spilling a drop of coffee. Claire didn't mind; she could use the backseat to sleep more comfortably in.

"How far away are we from Poughkeepsie?" Peter asked, his voice considerably less strained after a couple gulps of java.

"How do you even know where we _are_?" Claire blurted out incredulously. Peter didn't seem fazed.

"Mental GPS. I saved an old man at Mount Rushmore."

She should have known. Her ears were almost getting bored with "____is my power because I saved ___ in ____."

Sylar maneuvered the Versa out of the gas station's blinding lights, and into the darkened urban avenue.

"The signs say we're about twenty miles away," he remarked in reply to Peter's question.

"Good. We should look for a no-tell on the outskirts of the city," Peter said darkly. "It'll be safer then staying on the road."

Sylar and Claire murmured in agreement. After a couple hours on the road, at night, with a brutal brawl before any of that even began, Peter's companions weren't to complain about shelter and a warm bed as soon as they could get their hands on it.

"But speaking of being on the road," Claire interjected, "you need to destroy the car's tracking system somehow."

Peter looked into the back seat. "Tracking system? Where is it?"

"I'm not sure _where_," Claire confessed, "but I know all rentals have them. It's one of the things the FBI looks at first when they're trying to find someone."

She didn't even notice that she said _they're _instead of _we're._ The small note was not lost on Peter, though, and the corner of his mouth twitched up in the darkness.

Sylar peered at the GPS screen on the dash. "I'm pretty sure it's in there. That's the way the pieces fit together, at least. Where else would it be?"

Peter reared back a fist and punched in the LCD screen, prompting Claire to nearly jump a foot.

"Peter!"

He wasn't bothered. "What? You told me to destroy it."

"I meant by deprogramming it but," Claire sighed, "whatever works."

"The hard drive's still obliterated," Sylar observed. "I can tell without even needing to look at it."

That's right, Claire remembered. Sylar can see how things work.

"How discreet a hotel should we go for?" Sylar continued, glancing over at his brother.

Peter shrugged. "Just find one with a vacancy sign."

xxx

The Chez Motel was hard to find for the trio, which would make it even harder to locate for the FBI. The mismatched colors on their blurry neon sign and bright "vacancy" light was an odd mix of creepy and inviting. It looked unoccupied and furtive, but luckily not scary and dirty enough to be something out of a slasher movie. Though Claire, Sylar, and Peter considered just parking at the motel and sleeping in their car, the Versa, for it's all it's leisure, was hardly roomy.

Peter and Claire were even more sought after than the former killer, so Peter, holding Claire's arm and channeling Claude's invisibility, waited on the second floor while Sylar bought a $40 room for one night. Marcus Ferguson once again picked up the bill.

Normally, the gentlemen in both the brothers would have compelled them to buy a room for themselves, and let Claire have her own space. Yet, money was short. Besides, Claire assured them that she didn't mind. It wasn't like they hadn't seen a girl in her…oh wait. No PJs. No clothes or _anything._

That money would be put to good use tomorrow at Goodwill.

Once Sylar jogged up the creaky metal staircase to meet Peter and Claire, he headed them to their temporary abode, 215. The copper key he inserted into the doorknob was a testament to the motel's age.

The room smelled of moth balls and there were all sorts of odd stains on the floor, but at least the beds were comfortable. However, nice sheets didn't mean jack if there were three kids trying to jump on a bicycle built for two. Peter looked forlornly at the pair of full beds, not that he was very surprised by it, and slumped into the desk chair.

"Who's sleeping on the floor?" he glumly tossed out. Sylar and Claire exchanged glances before looking back at Peter.

"I will," Claire volunteered nonchalantly, but the two men shot down that idea immediately. She rolled her eyes and murmured something nasty about being 'old-fashioned', under her breath.

"You guys take the beds," Peter said tiredly. "I'll stay up and keep watch. I feel like all I've done in the past day is sleep."

Sylar dark eyes flickered reluctantly to one of the beds, but he kept his mouth shut nevertheless.

Claire had the shortest bathroom trip in a long while, only using it to peel off her jeans and make sure that her T-shirt was long enough to cover her up. The bottom of the shirt barely grazed the swell of her butt, but she was too tired to care anymore. It's not like the guys hadn't seen a woman slinking around in her undies before. They lived in a bordello for cryin' out loud.

The AC was utter crap, no shock, so the temperature was a nasty eighty-five degrees even once they were settled in. Sylar stripped down to his white wife beater, but Peter abandoned any form of shirt, bare-chested and lazily draped across the rolling chair.

Within ten minutes, Sylar was already out like a light, snoring slightly as he lay on top of his bed's covers. Claire, on the bed parallel to his, reached across the nightstand to set the alarm clock for seven o' clock when something about Sylar caught her eye.

At first she thought she was seeing things as her gaze briefly swept over his frame on the way to change the alarm. But when her subconscious took a good look at what it could be, she did a double take, glancing back up at Sylar's shoulder.

Nope; not seeing things.

Frowning, Claire set down the unset clock, crossing the valley between their beds and taking a closer look at the crook of Sylar's neck. Peter, who'd been boredly leafing through the tourist trap brochure to keep himself awake, saw her out of the corner of his sharp eyes. He set down the mini-mag, suspiciously watching as Claire just _barely _brushed the pads of her fingers across Sylar's inner shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, confused and over-protective. But of whom he was so selfish of, his brother or her….that could not be certain.

Claire jumped at the blunt sound of his voice hitting the air. Her eyes, when she turned herself to face him, were full of mystery.

"Have you ever seen this?"

"Seen what? I have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

Claire beckoned him over, and once Peter stood beside her, she pointed down at Sylar's neck.

"Those hatch marks. There's only one place that gives those out."

Peter bent over, examining the black twin scars on his brother's skin. "I've seen it, but never gave 'em much thought. But I guess I recognize them too. Claude had marks like that and mentioned-,"

"The Company," they said in unison.

"When was Sylar taken?" Claire inquired, facing Peter and only Peter now.

"Never. It must have happened before the amnesia."

Claire racked her brain. "After Homecoming, maybe? Dad said that Sylar was "taken care of" when I went home." Her mind fitted all of the puzzle pieces together. "Sylar must have been captured that night."

"Do you think," Peter paused, swallowing hard. "Do you think they have records of him? That they could tell him who he really is? A name, at least."

"My dad, Noah, might know," Claire nodded quickly. "If we called him up…" Her face fell. "I can't, though. I don't know where he is. I don't even know if he remembers me."

Peter recalled what Claire told him about Angela and Nathan's mission to erase Claire Bennet from mankind. How his former mother and brother sent the Haitian after every person that ever knew her name and erased their memories.

"They didn't try to erase ALL his memories of you, did they?" Peter's eyes widened. "That's not possible. He'd be missing half his life."

"My dad's always been good at hiding and persuading people. Maybe the Haitian just pretended to mind wipe him." Claire bit her lip and looked away, lost. "All I know is that I haven't heard from him ever since that happened. He moves around a lot too, because of the laws, and the last time we talked, he mentioned that he'd try to help people like us. A lot like what you and Sylar do, but more undercover."

"Yeah. I'm not exactly subtle," Peter mused, having lost count of the number of times his face had been caught on camera, or he'd used a power in public.

"So…Sylar doesn't know his own name?" Claire confirmed after a few moments of silence.

Peter answered a basic "yes", with a slight explanation. The brothers had no clue about their lineage either; whether Sy's family gave Peter away, or their parents were totally different and sent the brothers to different households.

"Sylar doesn't know where he's from, his age, his name, _anything_," Peter said despondently. "I promised him I'd help him find his purpose and his identity but nothing much has happened yet…"

Claire sensed the long-lost empathy in Peter's tone. Sylar was someone Peter'd actually grown to care very much about. It was hard not to with someone that stood by his side in Rock Bottom Central.

"It's midnight," Claire groaned, remembering to set the clock radio. As she pressed the sticky buttons to eventually find a station of white noise and get the alarm set to (more or less) seven am, she could feel Peter's gaze crawling up her back, absorbing her profile.

"Do you want the light on?" She gestured to the small lamp between her and Sylar's beds.

"No thanks," Peter murmured, yawning and resting his head over his folded arms, looking terribly uncomfortable trying to get settled in a $7 hand-me-down desk chair.

Claire looked skyward, in a half-eyeroll, before sighing and falling back slightly against her pillows.

"Are you sure you don't want a bed? I'm small; there's room for you up here."

Peter arched an eyebrow, prompting Claire to make a quick fuss of an explanation.

"Oh, please; don't get your hopes up. But it's either me or him, and we both know Sylar takes up that whole bed."

Peter snorted lightly. It was true. Sylar was all gawky limbs, so tall that his feet stuck out from the foot of the bed, as his body stretched out like the Vetruvian Man.

So Peter gave in this time, against his better judgment and sense of chivalry. "Good point."

He threw on his white undershirt, a small scrap of a tank top, but it was better than shirtless, and climbed into the bed beside Claire. She had, however, been lying a tad when she said it was big; the mattress held both of them, but didn't leave much wiggle room.

"And no spooning or kicking or else I'll push you off the bed," Claire warned seriously, turning on her side, back to him, before dozing off without saying 'goodnight.' Peter couldn't help but grin. He was sure she'd keep her word in a New York minute too, if he attempted anything of the sort.

Yet even with Claire's forewarning about the consequences of "spooning", the sheer lack of space between them (and Peter's usual sleeping arrangements, with a generally Claire-shaped figure beside him most nights) forced something in that category to be discovered in the morning.

Peter's palms were full of cotton when he awoke at sunrise, and when he was just beginning to slip into the new day, he assumed it was his sheets. But when the young man actually opened his eyes and looked down, he was more than surprised to see Claire splayed across his side, an arm slung across his chest, and his own arms tightly embracing her. The fabric was not from the bed, but from Claire's baggy T-shirt, which he had his hands protectively buried in.

He couldn't help but let out a small, ironic chuckle, nevertheless enjoying the feeling of her body against his. As much as Claire irritated him sometimes, she wasn't exactly ugly in any man's book. Even with the brown hair instead of the blonde that Peter preferred, he still considered her one of the more beautiful women he'd ever known. And, to his amusement, she only got lovelier with age.

But his quiet fun was short lived, when she let out a small morning mew and unfortunately realized where she was. Claire sat up with a start, Peter's arms slipping off her as if covered in oil. Her eyes were wild and big with horror, but the man, on the other hand, couldn't keep a smug smirk off his handsome face.

Claire's mouth opened and closed for a few moments, before she eventually muttered "Oh, shut _up,_" cheeks burning with mortification. And as she scooted to the other side of the bed, climbed out, and rushed into the bathroom much faster than necessary, all Peter did was keeping grinning right on back.

Half an hour later, they were all up and in the Versa again, (Peter still in a undeniably good-mood after how his morning began) headed to the first thrift store they could find. Claire wondered aloud why they couldn't just fly or teleport; it would have made this whole thing a lot easier, and it's not like Peter was still inebriated and unable to control his abilities anymore.

To which Peter replied "I can't teleport us AND the car."

Claire made a frustrated noise and hissed, from behind a rack of rather ratty sweaters, "Forget about the car, Peter. We need to ditch it and teleport."

"We can't teleport."

Claire blinked. "Why not? It's just the three of us."

Peter stared back, equally as frank. "Because Sylar can't handle teleportation."

Claire reeled, unconsciously glancing over her shoulder at Sylar. The "good" brother was rummaging though a table of too-small slacks, his expression very lost.

"Can't handle it?"

"He gets sick when I do it. Not _deathly _ill, but dizzy and tired for a while. We figured it out the hard way."

"Why does that happen?"

Peter shrugged. "We're not sure, but Mohinder thinks it has something to do with his molecular structure. Since Sylar screwed around with his DNA so many times before the amnesia, his cells might not be able to handle something like teleportation."

"But you have several powers too, and you're okay with it."

"I_ naturally_ take them, though," Peter reminded her. "Sylar took abilities by force, remember? His body wasn't built for it."

Claire turned back to the clothes rack, rifling through in stubborn thought. Just as she found a rather cute, pale yellow dress shirt, she decided to continue this argument with Peter.

"Still, isn't this kind of an emergency?" Claire persisted, a little whine lacing her tone. Peter internally wondered if her grouchiness was out of still-lingering embarrassment, but he didn't dare voice a word. "It's not like it's gonna kill him or anything."

"It _can _kill," Peter replied tersely, the barely-there lines on his face growing stern and deep. "I've seen it before. Hiro's best friend and sidekick Ando…they used to travel everywhere together. A couple years ago, Ando started getting sick. We didn't realize why until it was too late."

"What about us? And Hiro?" Claire whispered fearfully. "Can that happen to us?"

"The regeneration can protect you and me, and Hiro's body is made for teleportation. But anyone else….it wears on them after a while. Especially Sylar, if Mohinder's theory is right. I'm not willing to risk my brother's life just to get a leg up on the FBI."

It was the most unassailable tone he'd taken with her all week, and Claire wondered who it sounded more foreign to: her or Peter.

Both went back to grabbing a few articles of clothes, not searching for anything particularly fashionable, and they met up with Sylar at the front. He still had Ferguson's wallet in his back pocket, the thickness diminishing every time they spent the dead man's cash. This time, they luckily felt safe with using a credit card. It would lead the FBI straight to the Goodwill, but it's not like they would be sticking around. By the time the feds came, the two goons and a gal would been long gone.

Sylar paid, his face the least famous on the America's Most Wanted list, and soon they were off on the road again. The fugitives just hoped the sudden phone call they heard in the back a few seconds after Sylar swiped the card was a coincidence.

"I'll let you hold on to this," Sylar told Claire, holding the wallet out to her. She already had the other fallen officer's wallet, but that's what multiple pockets were for.

Something, however, compelled her not to stash the late stranger's wallet away. His money, the last real legacy the agent had, saved their hides a number of times now. Claire felt that she at least wanted to know the guy's name, to maybe send a silent thank you.

His driver's license was nestled in one of the picture holders, and she removed it to take a better look. The first thing that caught her was his cute, somehow familiar picture, a miracle really, because who takes good driver's license photo? It was his adorable smile too; something Claire nor the men saw a trace of when the ghost grinning up at her came to invade the abandoned brothel.

But above all, his _name _made her heart stop.

"Oh my gosh!" she shrieked, nearly scaring Sylar into running off the road. "It's Marcus!"

"Uh…who?" Peter's eyebrows rose in curious mystification.

"I think it's him…" Claire murmured, looking over the rest of the info. Yup, around the right age and height. Looked just like the Marcus Ferguson she remembered. There was no _way _this was not him.

"It's Marcus, my old neighbor from Odessa. I mean, _old, _old neighbor. I haven't seen him since I was six and he went off to the military. God, I used to have the hugest crush on him too. I would sit by window and watch him mow the lawn just to see him with his shirt off," Claire giggled nostalgically.

Peter's brow knitted. "That sounds sort of…stalker-ish," he commented dryly. Claire reached into the front seat and smacked him softly on the arm.

"I was five!" she protested, blushing, "And he was totally hot, too, when he was a teenager. Not bad now, either, but he's married and all…"

She trailed off, remembering that she should have said '_was _married.' After all, it's not like Ferguson was about to rise from the dead.

"He tried to kill us," Peter bitterly said. "It doesn't matter who he was."

"So is that the same thing you think about Nathan?" Claire asked smartly, with a tinge of resentment.

Peter slumped in his seat a little, sulking with no reply.

xxx

That was how it kept up for the next two days. Drive, eat, survive. Lots of McDonalds and motels to keep them occupied, as they took turns driving through New England, the Midwest, and eventually down to the Kansas/Colorado border. Somewhere in that two day period, Peter had announced to aim for Vegas as their final destination. Claire and Sylar didn't pursue any questions, and had no need to. They already knew it had to do with the scar.

Though Peter stayed silent through most of their journey, except for the occasional gripe about the radio station, Claire could sense he was in deep thought for each 12 hour leg of road. He sat in the backseat on the third day, knees up to his chest and his chin in his palms. The finger of his left hand idly scratched at the burn on his cheek, and the young woman could tell he was thinking about it again. How it happened. Who did it. Oh, and why it had to happen to _him _too, God bless his emo little soul.

As much as Claire found his reticence unnerving and a bit annoying at times, she couldn't help but wonder the same. A thing that could prevent Peter from healing also meant that the same fate could happen to her. The hard truth was, there was something out there higher on the food chain than either of them. Knowledge hadn't made her this scared since the Haitian tackled her in her Odessa room and told her of her foster father's real job.

Vegas was the key. Peter was fervently insisted that Linderman had something to do with this, even though Linderman was dead, and about as likely to come back to life as Ferguson.

"It was in his hotel, in his gallery, and I saw something he didn't want me to see. I bet you anything it was those schematics. Maybe his ghost did this or something. Maybe I can't heal if a ghost harms me, because ghosts aren't corporeal enough to be regenerate from," Peter theorized at one AM as he drove. Sylar was fast asleep in the back-seat, while Claire fought to stay awake beside Peter.

"Do you realize how crazy that just sounded?" she murmured drowsily, stirring in the seat.

Peter stopped and thought about it, realizing that idealistic side he'd buried down so far was starting to rear it's head, as it did from time to time.

"You're right," he admitted. "But what other way is there to explain it? Nothing touched me. I just opened up that lockbox, saw some papers and-,"

Claire opened her eyes. "Papers?"

"Just drawings. Information. There was a lot of engineering stuff, so I skipped over most of that."

"What did the drawings look like?" This topic began to intrigue Claire, and she sat up.

"Some sort of machine, I guess. A nuclear reactor, maybe? It seemed big and complicated, but I'm no mechanic. Besides, it's not like I got to see much before the attack."

Claire's investigative skills came out. She hadn't yet had a chance to really talk to Peter about what happened to him. Perhaps it could shed some light and evidence onto the situation.

"It attacked after the papers and not the sword?" Claire frowned.

"Yeah, it's the weirdest thing. Hiro's told me a hundred times about how he stole the sword. There were loads of guards after him. But why should some sketches be more important than that?"

"Because in the wrong hands, it could be devastating."

"If it's Linderman's, then it's already in the wrong hands, Claire." There were three seconds of silence before Peter finally declared, "We need to steal it."

How, was another issue entirely. That answer could only be found in Vegas.

xxx


	10. Sodom and Gomorrah

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Thanks to everyone for all you support ) I love ya'll and you're my motivation for writing this, no lie.

**Chapter Nine**

"**Sodom and Gomorrah**"

After traveling all night and taking turns driving, Peter, Sylar, and Claire finally saw a "Welcome to Nevada!" sign as they crossed the last border. Nothing but flat desert stretched for miles around them, the sunrise pouring on the dust and giving it a strawberry-banana hue. Needless to say, the migrating threesome was not only exhausted by the time they reached the outskirts of Las Vegas (a good few hours after even entering the state), but they were also ravenous.

Still on the backroads (if there _were _such things in acres and acres of nothingness), with help from Peter's "mental GPS," they found a rickety old diner on the beaten path; not abandoned, but likely just a treat for the locals. _Jeremy and Jenny's _may have not had the best health department rating, but at least they served _food. _

Inconspicuous was always good, at any rate.

Sylar, Peter, and Claire picked a round table right smack-dab in the middle, because the kids that take the back corners always give the appearance of being up to something. Again with staying inconspicuous.

So the trio acted their unshiftiest, breezily explaining to the curious waiters that they were a pair of brothers from Illinois taking their niece to see dear old Mom, or the girl's grandma. It was an easy enough fib, seeing as half of it had been true for a certain pie slice of Peter and Claire's life. And there was some sort of thrill to getting away with a totally bogus lie, as well.

"Have you told him about the schematics yet?" Claire directed the question at Peter, about Sylar. Sylar himself blinked, and that was answer enough.

"Er, no," Peter replied plainly, sitting up straighter in his seat.

"Schematics? Is that why we're going to Vegas?"

Peter nodded. "I think it's why that thing scarred me. I was attacked right after I found a manila folder full of these weird schematics and papers. Claire and I think they might be for something dangerous, especially if Linderman has something to do with it."

"What do you propose we do, then? Sneak in and steal them?"

Sylar's question came out with a chuckle, not even taking his own option seriously. But the glance exchanged between Peter and Claire was enough to tell him that his suspicions hit the nail on the head.

"I suppose I should have seen this coming," he said flatly.

Peter's brown eyes were full of plea. "It won't be as hard as it looks, I promise. And besides, I'll be the one going. You won't be in any danger."

Claire hadn't thought about that yet, but sincerely hoped that third time could be a charm for Peter. After all, the last two times he'd arrived back in Boston had been in screams of pain. Was it even possible for Peter to return from a mission in one piece?

Sylar didn't reply to Peter's claim, which he guessed was supposed to be a reassurement, though the thoughtful lines on his face gave away his dissatisfaction with the plan. Whether it was because of the jeopardy his brother would be putting his life in, or the fact that Sylar himself wouldn't have minded going out on a mission for once, Claire couldn't be certain.

They ordered simply, their cash flow cramping their stomachs more than the hunger could at the moment. Peter and Claire didn't even care that their waffles and sausage were cold, and Sylar ignored the stringiness in his South of the Border omelet. If it was digestible, it was delicious.

"I didn't know you liked omelets," Peter commented to Sylar after swallowing a mouthful of strawberries and waffle dough.

Sylar shrugged. "I've never had one before. It's fantastic, though. You want some?"

He stabbed a healthy sized piece full of egg, peppers, onions, and salsa, and held the tip of his fork out to Peter.

"Nah. Peter's allergic to onions," Claire responded before the man in question could, and for a second, she didn't even realize she'd said anything. Off the odd looks she got from both comrades, she thought back on it and pinkened slightly.

Sylar's eyebrows rose as he turned his gaze back to his brother. "You never mentioned that."

Peter looked down at his plate, eyes shifting between Claire and his waffles. "Never came up," he mumbled.

They stayed silent for a few minutes until the whistling waitress came over to deliver the check. Sylar took the black plastic tray from her hand, thanking her sheepishly. The waitress winked back and patted him on the shoulder fondly before sauntering off.

Peter's watchful sight followed her, noticing the whisper and giggle she gave to her friend, before she furtively looked over her shoulder at Sylar. The wiry man was totally in the dark, yet Peter noticed every sign.

"Do you know her?" he frowned, gesturing subtly at the young employee.

Sylar was oblivious. "What? No. I've never seen her before. At least in the past six years…"

He paused, and then seemed to wonder why this was so crucial.

"Why? What's the matter?"

Peter shifted in his seat. "She's acting like she digs you."

Sylar's brow knitted at the words that had never before been directed at him. "And?"

"I dunno. It's just weird."

"Why is that weird?" Claire asked sharply from his right. A mix of confusion, curiosity, and annoyance flashed on her pretty features.

"Women don't really like me, that's why," Sylar explained in a low murmur, suddenly looking at his omelet as though it was covered in goo. Claire's stare flitted back to Peter, and her eyes narrowed at his smug expression. The situation seemed _to her _to be a classic case of suggested reality. Women may have adored Sylar for all he knew, but Peter would always whisk them off before his poor brother even had a chance.

Peter only rubbed salt in the wound some more, snidely mentioning, "Sylar's never even been kissed, in this life at least."

Sylar looked up, glaring at the man across from him. "I could if I wanted," he retorted, now defensive. "But I'm too busy actually _saving the world_. Unlike _you_, who spends more time in bed then on the field!"

"What? Saving the world in front of a computer screen now, are you?" Peter hissed. He turned to Claire and sighed. "Claire, you're a woman. What do _you_ think?"

Claire's head snapped towards him. "Um. Huh?"

Peter crossed his arms across his chest, and looked at her expectantly. "About Sylar. Do you think he has any chance with someone remotely female?"

Claire glanced back and forth from her hero to the villain that _made _Peter such a hero. Right now, that association was seriously warped. While Sylar had his head bowed in mortification, Peter leaned back haughtily in his chair, sure that Claire would agree.

The brunette girl cut her eyes at Peter and turned to Sylar, her expression growing warm.

"I think you have a chance with _any _woman," she beamed.

And with that, Claire reached across the table, touched his cheek, and pressed her lips against his.

Peter had to restrain his jaw from hitting the floor. She was supposed to agree with _him, _not go smooching his lovesick puppy of a brother! Did Claire even realize _who _she was kissing?! SYLAR! The man who killed her best friend!

He blinked, rubbed his eyelids, and prayed that it was just an awful nightmare.

Nope. As soon as he opened them, there it was. His two friends, totally lip-locked in one another, both having completely forgotten that he was even there. It wasn't a face-sucking fest or anything, luckily; closed mouth and all, but that didn't make it _right. _

Oh, for God's sake, what had he gotten himself into? Those green, "overprotective instincts" were really starting to flare up again. Yes, overprotectiveness. That's all it was. Someone was on his damsel, his cheerleader, his Claire, and he had a right to be a little pissed about it. Especially when he _really _didn't want to end up as her brother in law. God, would that be beyond sick and wrong.

But no one was shocked more then the waiters, on the other hand, who were more than a little appalled at seeing the young woman lean across the table and capture her "uncle" in a tender kiss on the lips.

Oh well. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

xxx

"What the _hell _was that?"

Claire abandoned playing with her fingernails to give Peter a blank stare. "Hmmm?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" Peter exploded, while trying to keep his voice down at the same time. It wasn't that important though; they were in the middle of an empty diner parking lot in the middle of the desert, waiting for Sylar to come back from the pay phone. The brother claimed he knew someone in Vegas that they could stay with.

"You KISSED HIM!"

Claire shrugged. "Yeah. And? It was just an innocent little kiss. Grow up, Peter, really,"

She started to open the driver's side door, but Peter slammed it shut with the palm of his hand, blocking her off.

"Innocent? It was with _Sylar! _Do you have _any _idea what you just did? Who he is?!"

"I know what I did," Claire replied coolly. "I made the guy that you were downing, your own brother, feel better. And now what? Sylar is all evil again? Wasn't it you that told me to pretend as if his past didn't happen, and that he's a good guy, and that I should be nice to him?"

"Not _that_ nice!" Peter exclaimed, still blocking the door off. "I've lived with him for three years. Trust me; he wouldn't be good for you."

"I don't want to _marry him_, Peter; it was just a kiss! Maybe if you started making out with people for reasons other then lust, you'd understand," she snapped back scathingly, before overcoming his strength and ripping open the car door. Peter fumed, crossing to the other side of the car and attempting to open the passenger door. Claire pressed the "lock" button on her console, not even sparing him a look, but Peter overcame that obstacle with telekinesis. Within seconds, he slid into the passenger seat, still vehemently protesting.

Most of it went through Claire's ear, and out the other, except one thing in particular that got stuck in her hearing for days.

"How do you think this looks to _me?_" Peter said desperately, weariness wringing out his anger. "All I have is you and Sylar right now, and if you both leave for each other, I've got nothing."

Claire took a moment before finally locking eyes with him. "You're not gonna lose anything," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "You like to overreact, you know that? I told you, me and Sylar aren't like that."

Peter's eyes were downcast. "You should tell Sylar about that. I know my brother. He's gonna get the wrong message. You have to talk to him."

Speak of the devil. Before they could continue the most awkward conversation they'd had in ages, Sylar moseyed out the front door of the diner and over to the Versa. Peter didn't bother to climb into the backseat, and left that space for Sylar, not meeting his sibling's eyes as Sylar crawled into the car.

"Micah said that he and Niki can have us this week. They live about ten minutes away fro here."

The directions were for Claire, but Sylar spoke them to the fuzzy ceiling of the SRV. He couldn't look at her for fear of turning cherry red, feelings shooting from the soles of his feet to the top of his skull. Sylar'd felt love for sure, being around his kin and friends, but he'd never been remotely close to _in _love. Of course, looking back on it with hind sight, he would see that this infatuation was far from it, but sheer lack of experience with the subject warped his mind's perspective.

Besides, he barely knew the girl. Honestly.

"Which way do I go?" Claire hollered briskly. Not a line on her face showed any indication of what she'd done to him minutes before.

Sylar managed to croak out some basic instructions so fast his tongue nearly flew out before he curled up in the back, knees under his chin. Claire drove on in silence, with Peter's body in the passenger seat turned at a forty-five degree angle from hers. The man's eyes, irises colored like morning-old coffee, were narrowed in concentration as he watched dust swirl up and get swept under the van. Swept under the rug.

Maybe Niki Sanders would have a dustpan or two.

xxx

To say that Niki and Micah Sanders had lived a rough six years would be an understatement.

It wasn't Niki's direct fault; that she _was _able to admit to herself. No, the feds could gladly take the blame for the ankle bracelet on Micah's brown ankle, not her.

But even for a woman endowed with superhuman strength, she sure did feel like the most crushable person in orbit.

Once upon a time, when things were, in hindsight, less stressful, Niki would have wished for her estranged husband to go ahead and get cozy in his deathbed. Then, the world morphed, and when she needed DL more than anything…

Be careful what you wish for, she supposed.

It wasn't that she needed a man, necessarily. Niki had the looks and charm to get one, if she so required, and at the end of the day, she still loved her late husband. However, the true reason DL's death hit home so hard was because of Micah. The boy's father, his flesh and blood hero was gone.

Niki still had nightmares about the way her son's face crumbled when the found out the news.

On a particularly ordinary day, still brimming with the typical look-over-your-shoulders and close-your-blinds routine, Micah entered the kitchen looking rather _atypical._

"Whatcha doing, sweetie?" Niki smiled brokenly as she washed dishes, having arrived at a particularly stubborn stain on a cereal bowl.

"My phone just rang. It was Sylar."

Niki's hand slipped in surprise, her own strength splitting the china into pieces. With a sigh of _Not again…_, Niki swept the ceramic into the trash can and finally answered her son.

"Why did Sy call you?"

"He's with Peter and Claire. Their house went under attack. They're here in Vegas to look for something, but Sylar was in a hurry and wouldn't say," Micah explained plainly. He was a no-nonsense sort of sixteen year old. Direct and to the point, but that's not to say he was a stick in the mud. Despite his hardships, Micah was one of the few that kept a happy outlook on life. A star next to a new moon.

"They need somewhere to stay, so I said they could crash here," the boy trailed off, a vague hopeful lilt laced his voice, and Niki groaned, slumping back against the counter.

"Micah! I love them, but you can't go inviting people into our home. We're in enough danger as it is."

Micah crossed his arms over his chest. "Mom, Peter saved your life. We owe them."

Niki groaned again, burying her sharply featured face in slender fingers. Dishwasher blonde hair curtained her palm-covered face, and she took a deep breath.

"Fine."

Her son rushed forward and threw his arms around Niki's neck. She chuckled slightly. Not too long ago, his reach slung around her hips. Now, Micah was nearly taller than her.

The doorbell interrupted them, and Niki pulled back.

"When did they call?" she asked shrilly.

"'Bout ten minutes ago," Micah replied offhandedly. "Can you get the door? I need to straighten the guest room. It's a biohazard in there."

He left the room before his mother could argue, and Niki found herself feeling another punch to the gut in the never ending boxing match that was her current life. Ten minutes. What ever happened to fashionably late?

Niki was greeted by friends at her door. Granted, she'd only met one of them in person on a few rare occasions, heard about one in passing, and talked to the other online, but these were still allies. She may not have liked Peter Petrelli particularly much off his bad vices, but she'd fight to the death to uphold what was important to him.

"Niki." Peter came forward and embraced her, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek before drawing back.

He'd changed since the last time she'd seen him. Not in age; Peter hadn't aged a day. Lucky boy.

Rather, the horrid scar that marred the left side of his face was notable, along with a gram of death in his brown eyes. When Niki'd met him, he was overflowing with pride, confidence, and the thrill of adventure. A few years later, and he looked pretty damn sick of it.

Claire rolled her eyes at the overly affectionate manner that Peter treated the woman with. Either he was trying to get some sort of immature revenge, or he actually respected the woman. And when she sat down and analyzed it like all scorned women do, she deuced that he probably wasn't pretending a thing. Niki had the aura of a damsel, but not a mistress.

Something told Claire that single mothers pushing forty weren't exactly Peter's type, as well. Niki was already seven years his senior. When the harsh crow's feet and bags under her eyes were thrown into the mix, along with Peter's everlasting youth, Niki could almost pass as his mother.

And why she was even worrying about something so petty was a growing problem that she fought again to ignore. Some more.

"Sylar!"

Niki's face lit up and she brushed past Peter, slipping her arms around Sylar's neck. The man hugged her back surprisingly comfortably, not used to getting physical with women tall enough to actually fit him. They'd never met in person, but they'd chatted online several times. Of course, she knew nothing of Sylar's secret hacks with Micah. Niki severely frowned-no, scowled- upon Micah using his power for any risky purposes. Sylar recalled this and guiltily averted his eyes when he was in Niki's blind spot.

"Come in," Niki said breathlessly, holding open her door and ushering them inside. Her door, much like Peter and Sylar's, was covered in locks.

When they were safely in the house, Niki turned to face them, leaning back against the shut door.

"So what are you doing here?"

The question was directed at Peter, and he didn't quite know what to say.

"It's about Linderman," he expounded bluntly, knowing full well that he'd just dug out his first shovelful of dirt on his work-in-progress grave.

"Oh God," Niki closed her eyes, disappointment and dislike beaming through blue eyes even when the irises were shielded by lids.

"Trust me," Peter held up his hands innocently. "It if it wasn't important, we wouldn't be here."

"Then what are you talking about? Linderman is dead," Niki shot back, the Jessica in her rearing it's head. "I watched DL kill him."

"It happened in the Corinthian," Sylar told her softly. "Linderman's gallery. It's where-,"

He stopped himself before he casually blurted out "where Peter got the scar." Now was not the time or place, nor was he the man to exposit such stories.

Niki looked at him expectantly before Peter interrupted, changing the subject.

"I stumbled across some really creepy stuff when I was there. A folder with drawings and algorithms for a machine on it. I never gave it much thought, but when I really started to consider what it could be, I can't stop thinking about it."

"A machine?" Niki parroted in disbelief.

"A reactor, a building, an invention, _something." _Peter waved his arms around, flustered. "But if someone associated with Linderman, whether the guy's dead or not, is involved with it…"

Niki padded over to him across the living room floor. "You've been watching Dateline too much, Peter."

"It's not in my head!" Peter yelled, as Micah walked into the room. He shot a confused look to Sylar and Claire, who stood long forgotten in the back of the room.

"If there's some sort of top secret invention that the Linderman's wanted _that hard _to protect, then it means something! And you knew Linderman; you know how he was…"

"Yeah, I do. I know that getting involved with him when it's not crucial is suicide!" She unclenched her fists and relaxed, winding up gazing upon Peter with a sympathetic glow.

"I know you want to save the world," she acknowledged gently. "But this isn't the way. Don't go near the Linderman group with a thirty foot pole unless you want to be trapped for life."

While this was happening, Micah subtly gestured for Sylar and Claire to follow him to the guest room, to sneak out when out when no one was looking. But no such luck could be obtained. As soon as the boy, the man, and the young woman so much as flinched to walk away, Peter and Niki's debate apparently came to cease fire.

"I have to do this," Peter said with a note of finality. "If I don't, and something devastating happens because I sit back and do nothing…I don't know how I'd live with myself."

He curved towards Micah, preparing to speak with her son.

"Wait!"

The three guys and a girl whipped their heads around towards the eldest person there. And as Niki walked over towards Claire, her eyesight only for the small framed young woman, Sylar and Peter saw fit to follow Micah down the mirrored hallway, leaving the women alone.

"You must be Claire." The blonde gave her a small smile, and brushed back the girl's hair. Claire would have normally been annoyed at such treatment from a near stranger, but Niki didn't feel strange, or weird. She felt like a mom; a mom that Claire hadn't seen in four years.

"Yeah," Claire nodded shyly. "How'd you know?"

Niki shrugged. "Peter mentioned you, and Sylar told me a few things too. Stuff that Peter would pass on to him."

Claire stood up straighter. "About me? What did he say?"

Discomfort washed over Niki's face. "Just old stories and stuff, but…I'm…not the one you should hear it from," she explained after hesitation.

Claire's face fell. "Oh. Well…it's okay. Everyone's entitled to their secrets, I guess," she said miserably.

"So," Claire began, now self-conscious. "What can you…do?"

The barcode on Niki's wrist left no doubt that the mother was a mutant.

"I'm really strong," she remarked. "Physically. And you can heal?"

Claire bobbed her head up and down ever so slightly in a universal "yes."

"See, I think evolution is trying to make women inherit the Earth," Niki stated, pseudo-seriously. "Because if you look at it, we girls have all the kick ass powers, but the boys have the girly, frilly ones."

Claire actually considered that, as much of a harsh generalization as it was. Peter could _feel _people, and Nathan could _fly, _yet she and Niki could battle a bunch of Spartans. The thought brought a giggle out of her, and Niki smiled genuinely too.

And recalling how a certain male hero was abusing his powers ever-so-carelessly in recent days, perhaps natural selection really was cutting Eve a break.

xxx

While the refugee trio set up as best they could in the guest room, Niki's room, and the den, Micah chose to escape to his own personal Batcave: the Internet.

Unfortunately, his cryptically coded blog post was interrupted by a knock on his door. Micah warily invited the person in, personally disappointed that it was Peter standing in his doorway. Sylar was his friend, and Claire seemed nice, but Peter had always been sort of looming and shifty to the boy. Not intimidating; few adults intimidated Micah Sanders. But from what he'd seen, Peter didn't seem like too great a guy.

Yet, allies were allies, and he still beckoned the older man in. Peter shut the door hastily and quietly, putting a finger to his lips as he kneeled down next to the teenager's rolling chair.

"I need your help, Micah."

Micah arched an eyebrow. "Does it have to do with my power?"

"Yes."

"Why can't you just copy it and do it yourself?"

The statement hadn't meant to come out sarcastically, but a tinge of Micah's resentment tweaked his voice. Peter looked at him tiredly, as if he'd been expecting such a question.

"Not this time," he expounded. "I'll be doing something else. But do you remember all those times you helped Sylar get live footage from security cameras?"

Micah nodded cautiously. "You need me to do that again?"

"Yeah. But you can do it from this house this time, since Sylar will already be here. So are you up for it?"

Micah was not an easily persuaded person.

"You're doing it aren't you? Going after Linderman when my mom told you not to."

Peter groaned and stood up from his kneeling position, running a hand guiltily over his hair.

"She's letting you stay here," Micah continued, awing himself at how powerfully he was sticking up for his mother. "You should play by her rules."

"Not…now," Peter firmly responded. "They took something very important from me to protect those papers, and I want to find out why, Micah. Please. We can't do this without you."

Micah's sight fell to the ugly red mark on Peter's cheek, and then shifted to the raw hope and desperation in the man's eyes. It was a touch act to refuse, even for the most stubborn kid in the world.

"What do you want me to do?" Micah sighed, not believing that he was actually going along with this BS.

"Thank you," Peter grinned in relief, grasping Micah by the shoulder gratefully. "For now, just do a scan of any emails, faxes, documents, all that stuff, to see if we can get a lead. I doubt the papers are still in the vault, so we need to find where they are again."

"Okay," Micah said, turning reluctantly back to his computer screen.

As Peter approached the door, Micah called out to him, stopping him in mid knob-turn.

"You can't tell Mom _anything _about this."

Peter humorously thought back to how he'd used the own phrase in his childhood, adding on the consequence "or I'd be grounded for life!" at the end. But his internal chipper went back into hibernation once again when he spotted the blinking ankle bracelet on Micah's leg.

"Don't worry. I won't."

He left the room before the guilt could suffocate him even more.

xxx

Elisa Thayer stared at the wall.

It was a nice wall, though plain. Off-white paint and black crown molding, circa turn of the century or so. Simplistically beautiful, all the ebony and ivory pigments shouting out at her.

Binary contrast, except for the splatter of maroon dried blood on the wall.

Only two agents made it out of the "Boston Massacre" alive, and that was _barely _alive to boot. They came limping into her office two days after their defeat, proclaiming that the suspects got away with the prisoner, who seemed to have developed a strong case of Stockholm Syndrome.

Oh yeah. And six other agents were dead, including their leader.

Now, Elisa was in Boston, staring at her best agent's DNA embedded into the paint. Agent Ferguson, her former partner. His corpse lay splayed onto the floor, pickpocketed and covered in blood.

"Son of a bitch," Eliza muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she looked around at the carnage. There would be no CSIs brought into investigate. Nathan ordered for this mission to remain silent as the grave, and as much as Thayer detested anything that came from _that man's _mouth, she still knew it was best.

Elisa now stood alone in a graveyard of twisted bodies, crushed skulls, and rivers of blood with deltas at her feet. Marcus and the man in front of him had bullet wounds to the head, and a young woman was stabbed, but everyone else had severe bodily trauma. A baseball bat soaked in ruby on the other side of the room could explain that.

But she felt no remorse. It had been a suicide mission all along. How could eight mortals fight the wrath of two gods and an unbreakable girl? Impossible.

Thayer only had one true goal in all of this. Claire was not important; they could find other things to hang over Nathan's head. Her indestructibility wasn't valuable either. They already had a waiting list of similar mutants in their computer system that would actually _stay _loyal.

That other male mutant that disarmed the crew of their weapons? Useless as well. The two survivors were fervent in pointing out that he would defend himself, but not attack. Why go after someone that wasn't a threat?

No, there was one thing that towered above all, that even through this dire moment of butchery and failure, brought a smile to Elisa Thayer's face as soon as she heard it.

Peter Petrelli was burned. Just like she'd thought he'd be.

Elisa groped for her cell phone, flipping up the top. A haunting beep echoed through the hollow chamber of death as she pressed "1" on the speed dial.

It rung four times before the call was answered. Elisa spoke first.

'Hi, mom."

xxx


	11. The Burning Bush

**Chapter Ten**

"**The Burning Bush"**

For three years of his life, a desert had been Sylar's backyard, with dirt devils playing fetch and a swing set of wind machines in the distance. Dry air that burned the lungs and nothing but tan, tan, tan, in all directions. At the time, Sylar wanted nothing more then to escape the drought. But now, as he sat out on Niki's back porch and stared off into the blurry afternoon horizon, he realized how much he missed isolation.

It hadn't always been so raw here. Niki and Micah moved to the other side of town after DL's passing, abandoning their pool and grass for cracked, starved earth. The more their throats parched for freedom, the more the watering hole shrunk to a single droplet until there was nothing left at all.

Sylar heard a grinding _creeeaaak _behind him, and spotted Claire over his shoulder. The stinging wind lightly blew back the young woman's chestnut hair, and her sparkling eyes narrowed against the brightness of the sun.

A few more steps and she flanked Sylar, absorbing the ground's irreversible starvation along with him as they leaned forward against the porch railing. The world was silent, save for a couple voices inside and the breeze. Even after blocking his super hearing, Sylar found a whisper to be like a holler when he finally spoke to Claire.

"What now?" he asked, forcing Claire to look at him. A frown marred her otherwise pretty face.

"About what?" she rejoindered. His question could have veered off into many threads.

Sylar blinked. "Everything. What we're going to do about the schematics…and Niki's stance on this…and…." He paused. "Us."

The last syllable was just above an embarrassed mutter, and he turned away before he could see the calmness rearrange Claire's features.

"I'm sure Peter will think of a plan. He's good at that, even if it gets him half-killed most of the time," she replied offhandedly. "But about you and me…what happened at the diner wasn't supposed to be…"

"Oh, right, of course," Sylar nodded understandingly, his gut sinking inside. "I assumed as much."

Claire beamed in relief. "Good. I didn't want to lead you on or anything, but Peter was being such an asshat…I wanted to do something to get him off your case."

"Then I guess I should be thanking you," Sylar smiled tightly.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few seconds, before Sylar slowly said, "He's not that bad, really."

Claire arched an eyebrow. "Peter?"

"Yes."

She scoffed. This was beginning to sound like the same conversation she had with _Peter _concerning Sylar, only a few days before.

"Sure he is. I can barely stand to be around him anymore."

But it was at that moment she recalled the inhuman strength Peter summoned up at the brothel to save her; the way he fussed over her after he let her in from the rain; his vintage t-shirt and boxers that felt so comfy as she fought for sleep in an oppositely uncomfortable bed; the tight, frightened embrace he pulled her into when he found her in Hot Spur's parking garage after she'd run off; how he'd clung to her in such pain from the fresh burn across his face; his shocked expression after she threatened Marcus's life, 'cause if the FBI agents came anywhere _near _Peter she was gonna….

A warm feeling twitched in her chest. Maybe the bad just stuck out a little more than the good in post Peter-jerkdom. But as she stared at Sylar, into his deadly dark brown eyes, she remembered that though Peter was a good man…he wasn't the _only_ man.

"Then why are you still here?" Sylar commented fairly. "You can't hate him that much, or else you would have gone back to Nathan."

"I could never _hate _him; not after all he's done for me." Claire sighed, exasperated. "He just…confuses me sometimes."

Sylar smirked knowingly. "Good. Now you're really starting to understand him."

The girl looked up at her comrade, not sure she comprehended his meaning.

"Don't you see?" Sylar lightly pointed out. "Peter constantly tries to keep himself an enigma, which makes it even easier to see the layers underneath. The truth is, he hasn't changed from who you knew. He's simply wearing another identity that he never takes off."

Claire's mind immediately jumped to how glasses and tweed could be a "hidden identity" for Clark Kent's super alter ego.

"_You won't catch me in a cape; zippin' around with my underwear outside my pants," _Peter had wryly remarked to her with a smirk, over six years ago now.

Claire rolled her eyes. "If he never 'takes it off,' then that still sounds like he's _changed, _genius."

Sylar's broad shoulders moved up in a shrug. "Trust me, Claire. I'm his brother, and I've lived in the same house with him for three years. If you'd seen what I've seen, then you'd believe me. He's not nearly as secure as he appears."

Claire looked away, both interested and terribly uneager to know what Sylar had witnessed Peter do.

xxx

The noise was a beacon for attention, he was certain, but as Peter frantically rifled through Niki's kitchen cabinets, he failed to care. Niki was a former alcoholic and if she was anything like him, she had a stash too.

"I don't keep it in the house anymore, Peter."

Or not.

Peter slowly closed the cabinet in front of him, without turning to face the mother. Niki stood ten feet behind him, stringy-haired and thin as ever, patiently waiting for Peter to do a one-eighty.

It took a couple seconds, but he eventually got there, craning his head to look guiltily at her from over his shoulder. The woman's eyes brimmed with sympathy, burning into Peter like holy water to a vampire. He didn't need her, or anyone else's pity. Peter had lived with enough sad eyes in his direction his whole lifetime. There was no need to continue a trend that had already gone out of style.

"You drinkin' again?" Niki said timidly. Peter finally creaked around to face her eye-to-eye.

"I'm trying to stop," he muttered, fiery eyes smoldering for the time being.

Niki tutted disbelievingly. "You don't seem like you're trying too hard."

"You don't understand."

"I'm the only one that _can_!" exploded Niki, her voice still hushed. "I've been there, Peter, remember? And if it wasn't for my little boy, I'd probably _still _be there. The only way you can get rid of it for good is to find something you actually care about."

"I care about things."

"Like what?"

"Freedom," husked Peter, arms crossed over his chest and lines of defiance folding on his brow. "I care about freedom, equality, saving the world…"

Niki shook her head. "I don't think so."

A scowl slashed across his face. "Oh yeah? Then you tell _me_. What do I care about, Niki?"

"You care about attention."

Peter nearly recoiled. "And where did you pull_ that _from?"

"Nowhere," she responded simply. "You're _killing yourself _just so all eyes can be on you. Why? Does this have to do with Nathan or something?"

"This has nothing to do with Nathan," Peter gritted out.

"Fine." Niki gave up, opting to cross the kitchen and enter the living room. Peter gently caught her by the arm as she walked past, letting go of her as soon as Niki's attention was his.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I don't want to fight with you. We're all on the same side."

Niki, the forgiving one, concurred. "I know."

"And thank you," Peter added. "For letting us stay here."

"Thank Micah. It was his idea," Niki replied modestly.

Just when he thought she was about to walk away, she shocked him by staying, staring at his left cheek. Peter self-consciously rubbed his scar, inwardly wishing that he still had those emo bangs to cover the side of his face.

"You didn't have that the last time I saw you."

He stared back, equally as solemn. "It's why I'm here. They've found a way to get around my healing powers somehow. If they can do that to me…who knows how that can affect others?"

Niki's forehead creased. "You think this machine can overcome powers?"

Peter's lips parted in contemplation. He hadn't even considered that before. What if his scar was not a security measure to protect the machine…

…but a symptom of the invention itself?

"I don't…know," he said quietly, struggling with the concept. "I haven't considered that. I always just assumed…"

He stopped. He didn't know what he'd assumed. Truth was, this whole thing was a wild goose chase, a hunch they followed all the way across the country. Peter had been so caught up in the "why" he forgot about the "how."

If what Niki suggested was true, then they indeed followed the right hunch. However, this made it all the more pertinent to steal the schematics.

And possibly destroy the machine, if it was already under construction. Either way, mutantkind was beginning to put their baggage on Peter's shoulders more and more quickly as his life flashed by.

"Things are getting worse, aren't they?" Niki shook her head, using the marble countertop to support herself. "Just when I thought it was dangerous enough."

"It can always get worse," Peter pointed out. "Just hang in there. Because even though Nathan's throwing shit everywhere now, there'll always be people like me to fight back."

Niki smiled weakly before bringing up a hand to softly brush back Peter's hair, as if he was her second son. In a twisted way, he sort of was. Peter needed guidance, and since the woman he thought to be his mother was a cold hearted bitch that tried to make him blow up New York, Niki figured that a maternal influence in the boy's life couldn't hurt.

A door opened behind them, and her blood son, Micah, moseyed casually into the kitchen.

"Hey mom?" he asked, feigning innocence perfectly. "Can I show Peter something I built?"

Niki hesitated, and nodded tiredly. "Sure, baby. Go ahead."

Peter frowned, looking back and forth the between the mother and son before padding guardedly over to Micah.

"C'mon," Micah hailed him into the hallway. "It's in my room."

The pair trekked down the short hall before Micah pushed his way into his room. Peter followed, and judged from the thick atmosphere of deceit that Micah hadn't drawn him here to marvel over an RC car.

"No offense, but I hope that you didn't call me just to take a look at a robot," Peter said warily as he closed the door to Micah's room. The boy smiled slightly.

"Nope. No robots. Just some data."

That got Peter's attention. "Data? You actually found something?"

He stepped closer to the super neat computer desk. Not a fleck of dust was in sight, and Peter almost wondered if Micah had a "Merry-Maids" power in addition to his control over electronics.

Micah opened one of the minimized boxes on the toolbar. "A goldmine," he replied, sitting back slightly haughtily in his chair.

Peter took an eyeful of the sight before him. It was an email, simple really, and short, but true to Micah's word, it was definitely something to be aware of.

_FROM: prompt. Montecito. Brassieres, right after your shift. _

_The drop is at 11:15. Protect them with your life. _

_-S_

Peter read it twice, to let all the details sink in. Quite frankly, he was a little disappointed with Micah's find. Whoever 'S' was could have been talking about anything. "Them" did not necessarily mean "the schematics." The email addresses were clearly made up, scrambled when put through a locked down system…"C" didn't tell them much. When did 'C's shift end?

And what the hell did brassieres have to do with anything?

"Micah…" Peter began, glancing over at the teenager, who still wore a smug, satisfied expression. "Thanks for helping, but truthfully, this doesn't tell me much."

"I haven't shown you everything!" Micah defensively protested with a small pout on his dark lips. "Just hold on a second."

He dragged his mouse over the italicized "S" on the letter, highlighting it, and started his explanations.

"It was a really secure connection. I'm probably the only person other then the receiver to even be able to touch this email. But before I was cut off, I managed to get the IP address of the sender. After some digging, I found out that the computer is registered to a woman named Sophia. Linderman's _wife _Sophia, just like I thought."

"Oh. Cool."

_Mrs. _Linderman. Well that explained a lot. Indeed, Linderman did have a successor, but it was his better half rather then his non-existent son. Peter shook his head, dumbfounded. It should have been obvious, of course. Behind every great man was a bitchy woman with a whip.

Angela Petrelli even came to mind for a split second.

"Just like you thought?" Peter cocked his head. "You know who she is?"

"Mom's dealt with the Lindermans for years, until Dad killed Mr. Linderman. Sophia found out and…" Micah stopped, and took a deep breath to pull himself together. "There was a note from her. On Dad's body, when we…found him."

Peter's chest clenched. So far, he'd only gotten enough out of Niki to know that her husband was killed about five years ago. However, nothing could have prepared him for such a gut-churning story. DL had not only been _killed. _He'd clearly been _assassinated, _by the woman that Peter was directed to hunt down.

"Right. Now check this out," Micah abruptly changed the subject, bringing up another minimized window. It was a web page for the Montecito's gentleman's' club.

Which just happened to be called Brassieres.

"The main act is named Betty, just like in the email address!" Micah excitedly expounded. "But most strippers go by stage names, so her name _might _start with a 'C' in real life!"

A few more clicks and they were on "Betty's" profile. A leggy blonde woman in a white corset and eyelet lace panties beamed at the two men through the computer screen.

Peter's wide grin made his check-mark shaped lower lip even more noticeable. He ruffled Micah's sleek, ebony curls as a sign of alliance and respect.

"You found all this in the ten minutes I was out there?"

Micah shrugged. "It's no big deal. As long as Mom doesn't find out."

"I'll try to keep it a secret," Peter promised honestly. After all this wonder boy had done, Peter at the very least owed him a truthful word. "In the meantime, what are we gonna do about Betty and Sophia?"

"Lemme look," Micah noted, skimming over Betty's profile with his eyes. But Peter spotted the golden tickets first, pointing adamantly towards the monitor.

"Hey, look there. Her last show is at 10:30, so she probably gets off at eleven."

"She does escorting too," Micah observed. "That could be a smart way to intercept her between her last show and when the drop happens."

They exchanged a knowing look with one another.

"Well…" Peter said bluntly, not entirely sure what to make of that.

"This is your territory, Romeo." Micah held up his hands innocently. "Do you think you could charm her into giving you some information?"

"Yeah, normally I'd do it without even thinking about it, but recently…" Peter trailed off, rubbing his neck uncomfortably.

"That girl that's with you. Claire? You can't do it because of her?" Micah asked wisely.

Peter's eyes narrowed and he firmly replied, "Claire? No. We're not like that. No, it's just that…this doesn't seem right…"

His gaze fell back on the picture of the gorgeous stripper entwined with a shining metal pole. She was beautiful, but was it worth it to seduce her? She had no ability. She wasn't a normal person, or a victim that Peter needed to care for. She was a rich, human stripper on the other side of the lunchroom. The girl that all the nerds and jocks alike drooled after, but all she really wanted was a nice paycheck and to be left alone.

Maybe Micah was right about Claire's presence affecting him. Not because Peter felt as if he'd be "cheating" on her. Heavens, no. As he'd said to Micah very strongly, "_We aren't like that." _But Claire gave him a conscience…made him recognize his wrongs. She was like the angel on his shoulder, slapping him on the ear whenever he thought about doing something stupid. Like luring a casino stripper to his bedroom when the woman had previous, very important arrangements with Mrs. Linderman. And most likely some STDS too.

Claire was gonna slaughter him for such a rash decision.

But this was about saving the world. And saving the world still outweighed spending some quality time with dear Betty.

"Its formal dress," Micah stated plainly, looking up at Peter with big, doe eyes.

Peter's shoulders slumped, and he looked dejectedly towards the fatherless boy.

"Got any tuxes, kiddo?"

xxx

The late DL Hawkins only owned one tux, but anything that resembled formal wear would work for Peter. There was only a small problem with the fine suit.

DL Hawkins was six foot one and burly in his upper body. Peter Petrelli stood at a wiry five ten on a good day.

"Do you think anyone would buy cuffs?" Peter weakly said to Micah, holding up the extremely long slacks to his legs.

"Don't even think about it," warned Micah. "You're gonna have to find something else or fix this one."

Something seemed disrespectful and off about that. No, not "something." Everything. Who was Peter to alter the suit that Micah's dad got married in? His passed father's only item of rich that Micah himself could probably fit into soon. It was like destroying a family heirloom, and behind Niki's back on top of that. Peter could hardly muster up the heart, or lack thereof, to do such a thing.

"I shouldn't change it," Peter decided, putting DL's tux back in the closet. "It was your dad's."

Micah shrugged. "He's dead. He won't be wearing it anytime soon."

The statement struck Peter like an abrupt smack to the face. The boy's indifference was jolting. Though, when Peter looked closer, he could sense it was faux. A defense mechanism.

Pity washed over Peter and he shook his head in discontent. A sixteen year old boy forced to be so stoic because of his situations. It was hardly fair.

Damn Nathan Petrelli to hell.

"Will Niki be okay with it?" Peter inquired cautiously. Again, a shrug in reply from Micah.

"We're not telling her. Besides, you can hem to bottoms in a way that the string will come out later and the pants'll be as good as new."

"Yeah, but…I'm not picking up a needle."

"I could tell the sewing machine to do it," suggested Micah. Then, his expression crumpled a little in defeat. "If we had a sewing machine."

"I'll just ask Claire or Sylar," Peter yawned, rubbing his hands over his face to wipe the sleep off of it. "Sylar would be able to figure it out, and Claire's a pretty good seamstress. You just work on a plan and getting the equipment set up, okay little man?"

Discomfort floated around them before Peter reached and gave Micah's bony shoulder a comforting squeeze. "And I promise you, Micah. As soon as I see that bitch that murdered DL…I _will _kill her. You understand?"

Micah nodded emotionlessly, still straight-featured when Peter patted him again on the shoulder and headed out the room.

xxx

Nathan used to have an ignorant sense of false security, a feeling that somehow, he had all the time in the world.

Then the Mutant Purification Act finally dropped. What a load of bullshit.

Nathan had his neck under Sophia Linderman's stilettoed high heel for some time now (_Thanks Dad), _and was forced to put up with some serious garbage in his presidency. But nothing, no, nothing, could have prepared him for this bombshell.

Then again, was it really that much of a shock? Nathan had always counted on Sophia to cross the line between "extreme" and "homicidal" at some point. It was just a matter of _when._ Still, the manila folder on his desk hardly seemed real. It was like a running joke tripping into reality. A wish, a hope, a _someday _dread that blindsighted Nathan more than he could say.

Sophia's daughter, Agent Thayer, spitting image in body and soul, had kindly left a snide note inside the folder as well. _To be signed on April twenty-third._

One week. Seven days. 168 hours. Over 100,000 minutes.

And just like that, Nathan was living on borrowed time, rather than in a lightless tunnel of ticks on a clock.

xxx

Peter easily found the guest room where Claire was crashing, off the pure lack of square footage in the house. A quick knock to the door and he was reluctantly invited in by her.

"Hey," he said as he slipped into the room. Claire didn't acknowledge him other than a terse "Hi."

The last time she'd really spoken to him had been earlier that morning, after she kissed up Sylar in the diner. Since then, an unspoken silent treatment weighed between them, but Peter recognized bigger things at stake then teenaged-style pettiness. He'd have to put aside his destestment of Claire's action, which had been stirring in the back of his head pretty much every second of the waking day since it happened. If only Claire, the grudge wielding woman, could forgive his negative and…possible overreaction to the situation.

"Are you doing okay?" Peter asked awkwardly, rubbing his arms in anxiety. Claire finally gave him her eyes, looking at him in disdain.

"What do you want?" Claire slumped down onto the bed, rubbing her hands over the tops of her pants.

Peter's aura shifted to peaceful, glad that the small-talk charade was finally over. "Do you still know how to sew? I need you to hem some slacks for me."

Claire arched an eyebrow challengingly. "What? You assume that because I'm a girl, I can sew?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "I _know _you know how. Sandra taught you, remember? She used to make all your clothes when you were a kid until Jackie said that it wasn't cool, and you started wearing designer stuff."

Claire wrung her hands and looked away, embarrassed that the man before her could still recall something like that. The thoughts of Jackie and Sandra, and cupcakes, and Odessa highways brought back even more pain, and Claire resisted the urge to clutch her chest.

"Please, Claire? It's really important," Peter insisted.

"Fine, you kiss-up" she sighed. "Where is it?"

Peter grinned. "In Niki's room."

There was a pregnant pause. "Um…well…I sort of need it to-,"

"Right. I'll go get it," Peter hastily responded, doing an about face and speed walking out the door. Claire couldn't help but tsking good-naturedly after him. The guy was a royal, tumultuous, mess, and Claire found it hard to believe that he knew up from down anymore.

But she was about to give him a run for his dirty money.

As soon as her green eyes moved up from the empty doorway, she spotted it. It was impossible to miss, even if it wasn't all _there_. The darkness, the figure, the unadulterated horror of it was unavoidable, even if its solidity was slightly uncertain to Claire. She could see the thing in front of her, but wasn't really sure if it could touch her without passing right through.

The best way to describe this _thing _would have been a "ghost" or a "shadow." Perhaps a mix of both, if Claire was really interrogated about it. It was the shape of a man, a man about a head taller than Claire with wild hair overhanging his forehead. 'His' body was three-dimensional, so he couldn't have _really _been a shadow…yet his whole being was like a dementor to happy thoughts. His frame was a black hole, making the room seem darker just in his presence.

Claire swallowed her voice box. Must've been, because sound was definitely not coming out, no matter how hard she tried to scream. This creature was like a memory from a nightmare, even though it made no move to be violent. But the ghost-shadow-man-thing _was _slithering forward, its footsteps utterly silent, as though it didn't even exist. Ha. Hahaha. Maybe it wasn't even real. Claire was hallucinating. Yes, that was it. That diner's cooking might have given her food poisoning, or she hadn't slept well in a while.

However, no amount of eye rubbings and double takes erased the dark spot on the universe. The force stepped forward at a horribly slow pace, arm beginning to outstretch towards Claire.

"Please…" Claire begged in barely a whimper, backing up against the wall. Even with the door wide open, she still felt suffocated and trapped. Who knew what this thing was capable of? One sudden move and it could suck her into oblivion, or turn her to dust.

And even Claire couldn't recover from that.

Her pleas to him were not heard, but she wasn't all that shocked. The shadow appeared to have a silhouette of ears (rather noticeable ears too, actually. They sort of stuck out from the sides of his head, though that might just have been because of the short haircut. If he even had hair.) but shapes with no light couldn't _hear _could they?

They also couldn't move, or think, or walk, and this one clearly broke all those boundaries. So Claire settled for the fact that maybe the thing was just being a creep and ignoring her.

"Away!" Claire shrieked, more force in her voice this time. "Get away!" 

Yet still, her words did nothing to turn off the ghost. Its digits stretched, hand now inches away from her delicate countenance. The movements of its cloak, its joints…human, but as though that person was walking on a cloud. Every twitch was so fluid; the way the thing lifted its arm, took its sweet time stepping inch by bloody inch towards her.

Claire's breathing began to calm as the shadow's fingertips drew closer to her cheek, almost like the thing was about to caress her. Gee, great. Just what she needed. A non-existent shadow creature that just magically appeared from air to fall in love with her. Fantastic.

A slight chuckle flowed over Claire's lips at how ridiculous that sounded. Uh, yeah. This was surely a dream, or a figment of her imagination, or Niki had a mold spore problem in this room. Their mutant infested world was an odd place indeed, but this was just off the charts.

"Holy shhhh……," trailed off a voice from the door frame. A small thud sounded as DL's tux slipped out of Peter's fingers and onto the carpet before the young man clambered towards Claire. The creature immediately backed off, stumbling backwards onto the bed. Peter wasted no time in creating a human barrier between Claire and It, stretching his arms out to press her against the wall.

"W-where did it come from?" he stuttered, shocked that he could even form words. Peter'd seen a lot of weird-ass stuff in his lifetime, but this had to be the oddest and most unexplainable.

"I dunno," mumbled Claire into his ear, as her hands slid up and wrapped around his upper arm. "I-it just appeared after you left."

She pulled him, if possible, closer to her. Right before her eyeline slowly slipped down.

Peter craned his head to look behind him at Claire, whose gaze locked on the floor, right in front of Peter's own feet. Off what the young woman witnessed, her iron grip tightened on his arm, fingernails digging into his flesh.

"Where's your shadow, Peter?" the girl whispered, eyes widened in fear. Where there should have been twin absences of light on the floor, only Claire's mimicking, quivering shadow remained.

Peter leaned against her even more, as his eyes slipped up to the ghostly black shape before them.

"I think it's standing in front of us.

xxx

A/N I promise it's not magic, it's not unexplainable crap, and it's perfectly scientific. It's also incredibly important and basically essential for the rest of the plot. I haven't gone animal crackers, I swear!

I also promise that Mr.ShadowGuy is totally nonthreatning, sweet, and adorable, as you'll find out soon )

Sorry about the slightly delayed update too. After all the writing I did last week, my muse sort of went on strike and wouldn't let me write this. So admittedly, it's not the best chapter I've ever written (sorta felt that way about the last few, but not all scenes can be full of Paire or action, unfortunately). I've written some of the next chapter, though, and it's brimming with lots of Paire angst and the start of that big sequence that I've been promising ya'll for so long )

And disclaimer: Nothing is mine!


	12. Blasphemy

**Chapter Eleven**

"**Blasphemy"**

"How is your shadow walking around?"

Peter shot Claire an impatient look. "I've already told you. I don't _know_."

"How _don't _you know?" Claire retorted. "It's your shadow."

The shade in question crossed its arms over its dark, opaque chest and nodded towards its host in concord. Claire couldn't help but smile at the creature. Even a blob of hushed ebony agreed with her.

"Why don't you ask it?" Claire suggested to Peter. "It's responding to us."

"It can't talk!"

"It can still reply!"

Shadow-Peter interrupted them with a tantrum, jumping up and down and stomping his feet indignantly. Peter scooted further away, his own silhouette starting to give him the creeps.

"Um…I don't think he likes us calling him "it" all the time," Claire said, prompting Shadow-Peter to snap his fingers and applaud. Apparently, his intendancy was understood, evoking an extreme, beyond real life elation. The enigma's emotions in general appeared to be more enthusiastic than the average human's. Though, why was this a shock? Shadows weren't, after all, human to begin with.

Peter rolled his eyes. "How can it-,"

"_He_," Claire corrected bitterly.

Peter fumed. "How can _he _even hear us? He doesn't have ears!" 

"He does too," Claire argued, reaching forward and tugging gently on one of Shadow-Peter's ears. "They stick out, just like yours."

The black flesh between her fingertips was solid alright, but still soft and wispy, as if it would poof away at any second. Shadow-Peter cowered down, swatting away Claire's hand.

Peter rubbed his ears self-consciously. "They don't stick out," he grumbled half-heartedly.

Claire ignored him and turned to Peter's counterpart. "How did this happen?" she kindly asked it.

Shadow-Peter gave an animated shrug while Claire bit her thumbnail, slipping deeper into thought.

"It-."

"HE."

Peter grinded his teeth. "_He's_ got to know something. He didn't just appear out of thin air."

Claire looked at him disbelievingly, and Peter rephrased that.

"Well, okay, he did. But do you think he was alive _before _that?"

They turned to look at Shadow-Peter for an answer to the unanswerable. The figure meekly looked down, hands linked behind it's back, the tip of one foot digging from side-to-side into the carpet.

"Guess not," Peter flatly announced.

"Are you here for good?" Claire inquired. "Or will you just go back to being a normal shadow?" _Now there's a sentence I'd never thought I'd say. _

The shadow crumpled to the floor, sinking into a two-dimensional shape on the floor. It mimicked Peter's exact position, proportionally, before peeling itself up off of the ground and standing tall once again.

"Wow," Peter said, scratching his neck. "What else can you do?"

Claire lightly smacked him on the arm. "Peter! He's not a vending machine that'll do a trick everytime you pull a lever."

But evidently, Peter and his profile were more in line with each other than Claire originally suspected: they were both terribly hell bent on proving themselves right. And in this case, "themselves" also included "each other."

The words had barely left Peter's mouth before his shadow suddenly grabbed a candelabra, a CD case, and a Bible off the end table and started _attempting _to juggle. However, neither Claire nor Peter himself were surprised when Niki's three random objects tumbled out of Shadow-Peter's hands and clunking on the floor.

"That means it can't do anything that I can't do?" Peter mused, running a calloused palm over his mouth.

Shadow-Peter gave his comrades a thumbs up, still overly enthusiastic. But he apparently wasn't all for embarrassing himself. The next thing the human pair knew, they were laying eyes on an even more spectacular sight than a walking shadow. It was a walking shadow that _flew. _Or, really, _wisped_. Shadow-Peter didn't really fly…more, he glided around the room with his feet dangling and fluttering beneath him. As if that wasn't enough, he next stuck a black arm through the wall, proving himself to be transparent at will on top of everything else.

"That's…cool," Peter said bluntly. If his shadow mimic had color, its cheeks could have been bright red with modesty.

Claire took a step towards the ghostly outline, until Peter quickly grasped her wrist and pulled her back.

"What?!" she exclaimed angrily, ripping her wrist from his clutch.

"He could be dangerous!"

"Oh please," Claire glanced skyward edgily. "Petey's harmless."

Peter's scowl was erased with a look of sheer bafflement. "Uh…what?"

"I said that-,"

"_Petey?_"

Claire shrugged. "Well, seeing as he has a bigger emotional range than _you _do, I think he should at least have a name."

"It's a shadow, Claire!"

"Well, I still like him better than you." Claire stuck her nose up at him and skipped over to 'Petey', throwing her arms around the shadow's neck and pulling it into a friendly hug. The creature hesitantly held her in return, before lightheartedly pushing her back, right into Peter's arms.

Claire awkwardly shimmied out of Peter's natural, loose embrace, causing Petey the Shadow to sulk slightly.

The young woman cleared her throat. "So…is he a power?"

Peter moistened his lips and steadied his dizzy mind. "Uh…probably. What else could it be? I must have run into someone and not have realized I absorbed their ability. Probably recently, too."

"It could have anyone," Claire moaned, sitting down. "An employee at the diners, or a gas station. It could have even been one of those agents that bombarded the house."

Peter held out his arms helplessly. "It's too late now. I guess I'll just have to deal with it." He forced a smile as he looked upon his mute, opaque likeness. "It's not so bad. I've had worse."

His shadow pointed a thumb at him, while nodding eagerly in agreement. The girl snorted with a genial shake of the head.

Like Peter, like Petey.

xxx

"How are you feeling, Molly?"

The teenager looked up from her copy of _American Girl _magazine. "I'm…okay, I guess."

Mohinder tenderly reached across the bed and smoothed a lock of blonde hair out of his adopted daughter's eyes. "That's very good news. You had me so worried there for a while. I was fearful that you had a relapse."

Molly managed a small smile. "You were worried?"

"Of course," Mohinder replied, astounded that this was such a new fact to her ears. "You know how much I care about you, love."

He pulled her into a comforting, one-armed embrace before deciding that the meter for "Dad time" was in the red. Mohinder could already see Molly's fingers itching to pick up her magazine again. Ah, well. She was too full of light and young adorability for him to hold anything against her. She was simply an abnormal teenaged girl that wanted to live a normal life.

Mohinder could at least offer her privacy; give her some solace in her thoughts.

After giving his daughter a goodnight kiss on the forehead, Mohinder slid off the comfy bed and retreated back into the dimly lit hallway.

"Goodnight, Molly," he whispered, resting his head full of dark curls against the doorframe as he looked at her.

Molly still sat, smiling. "Goodnight, Dad."

Her eyes didn't leave the door until heard the _click_.

The best thing Mohinder ever gave her was alone time, not that she didn't love her father or anything. But after Molly's short, though difficult life, there were some thoughts that nagged her subconscious, things that were always on her mind. Things she would be ashamed for Mohinder to know.

Like a certain major crush on one Peter Petrelli.

Mohinder discouraged the use of her power before, and after her feinting spell, he downright prohibited it. But fruit tastes so much sweeter when it's forbidden, does it not?

Molly had gotten into the nasty habit of letting her mind wander to the black clad hero when she was left in solitude. And of course, whoever Molly thought of, she could automatically see at will. Just little peaks, here and there, but never after eight o'clock or so. Molly had learned the hard way about things she didn't _want _to see, and how other people deserved just as much privacy as she.

Mohinder would kill her for this, but what he didn't know couldn't hurt him…

So Molly guiltlessly lay back against her pillow, drifting off to sleep as her mind raced with images of raven haired knights rescuing small blonde girls.

xxx

Even with just an eyeball's estimate of how short the hem was supposed to be, Claire was right on the money in her creation. Peter moseyed out of the bedroom, dressed to the nines, fitted in a suit that seemed to be made for him. In length, at least. The jacket still engulfed his frame, and the belt he wore was on the last hole, but at least he wouldn't be tripping over the bottoms of his slacks.

Petey was on the ground again, pretending to be "normal." Whether or not the shadow consciously wanted to keep itself a secret from the others, or just didn't want to cause a scene yet, even Peter didn't know. Yet, he still felt a connection to the odd phenomenon. The only mystery left was: who was the benefactor that harbored such a power? Surely Peter would have noticed meeting someone with a free-walking shadow.

"You look nice," Sylar complimented stiffly from the couch. Peter's brother sat back lazily on the living room couch, engrossed in one of Micah's computer magazines. Peter acknowledged him with a nod, before leaving the room in search for Claire once more.

She was in Micah's room, conversing smoothly with the young teenager. Peter felt a warm smile curl on his lips. Though he held great respect for Micah, the kid did need a bit more social influence. It would break Peter's iron heart to see such a brilliant, loving boy turned to stone even further by this harsh world.

It was already an unbearable pity that Micah was forced to be a prisoner in his own home.

Peter gently knocked on the door frame.

"Can I ask you for another favor?"

Claire rubbed her forehead, exasperated. "What _now_?" she sighed good-naturedly.

"This," Peter pointed to his scar, "isn't exactly discreet."

"Hmm. You're right. Come on; we can find something to cover it up."

She bid Micah farewell, then led Peter to Niki's master bathroom with ease before quietly closing the door. Peter added a mental turn of the lock for security. The Sanders matriarch was much paler than Peter, but Claire still suspected that Niki owned some darker shades of foundation for summertime.

Eventually, Claire managed to dig up a combo of colors that would match Peter's skin tone well enough. A dark _plum_ and pale _silk_, with a dash of fresh _mango_ was as close as they were gonna get to _olive._

"We were so distracted by Petey-(_Peter flinched) -_ that I never got a chance to ask you…" Claire began, smudging some liquid foundation on Peter's cheek, masking his red burn. The frown lines that formed on his face creased the make-up, and Claire lightly smacked him on the back of the head.

"Stand still. You asked for this."

"Yes mother," Peter gritted out sarcastically.

A brief few seconds of silence hung between them before Claire continued on her original question.

"Anyway…what's with the nice threads in the first place?"

"Er…the job requires it. And thanks, by the way. It fits really well."

"You're welcome." Claire twisted the cap back on the foundation. "So who are you supposed to be? James Bond?"

Peter turned his head and looked at her sardonically. "Where I'm going, suits are part of the dress code. I'm trying not to stick out."

"Uh-huh," Claire replied absently, filling a powder brush full of beige dust. "Whatever. Now look at the mirror. Shouldn't be too hard."

It took Peter a couple seconds for that sting to actually hit home. For once, he let it sink in and stay, contemplating Claire's polar opinion of him rather than snapping back an insult.

"Still, where are you going?" Claire persisted. "Must be pretty fancy."

"It's a…casino. Club. Thing."

Claire grinned. "A casino club thing. Those are always fun."

He didn't answer, so neither did she, and they sat in a quiet zone until Claire wrapped up her work. She put the finishing touches on the scar, licking her thumb and rubbing his cheek to blend the make-up a little more. Peter didn't wince, but instead kept his gaze fixated on his likeness in the mirror.

"I think it's done," she confirmed, cupping his chin and turning his face to get a better view of her handiwork. "They'll never know it's there."

As Peter checked out the smooth, fake tan skin, Claire closed all of Niki's foundation containers and opened the drawer they were originally scrambled in.

"Thanks," Peter said gratefully. "You did a good job. They shouldn't know a thing."

"Is it worth it?"

She caught Peter off guard. "Is what worth what?"

"Living your life like this. You're always off saving someone, or doing something secret. You can never settle down, or have fun…start a family maybe."

"Nah," he looked down in slight shame. "I definitely don't want to be a dad. I think we both know I'd be awful at it."

"You never know. You might already be one."

It slipped out before she could wrestle it in, and Claire groaned mentally, chewing her tongue.

Peter frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The tanned skin of Claire's cheeks flushed, and she hesitantly replied, "Well…the way you…_sleep around _and everything."

Biting back a nasty retort, or perhaps even a scold, Peter chose to reply civilly this time. "The women were all bar-coded and sterilized," he emotionlessly explained. "So no Claire, I'm _not _the father of an illegitimate mutant kid out in the country somewhere."

Yes, Claire recalled it now. The breeding laws. All metahumans were required by the Constitution to get sterilized when they were tattooed, to eventually make their kind extinct. However, Claire knew for a fact that the rule applied to _all_ mutants, not just females.

"What about you? You're bar-coded, but you said only the womenwere sterilized."

Peter smiled tightly. "I'll just say I have you to thank for that."

Claire cringed, but at least their shared healing powers had come in handy once again.

Peter got up from the bathroom stool and grabbed his not-exactly-tailored-to-fit tuxedo jacket from the towel rack. Right before he left, he glanced down at his Sylar watch and bit his bottom lip in mild frustration.

"It's almost nine. Time to save the world," he announced nonchalantly, and grabbed the doorknob behind him.

"So is it really that meaningless?" Claire timidly stopped him, not letting her last question get blown off so easily.

Peter glanced at her impatiently as his fingers unconsciously rubbed his watch face. "What?"

"Saving lives. What; do you do it so often that it's lost its importance?"

"It's an obligation," he admitted. "I'm supposed to do it, so I do. I don't dwell in it anymore."

"But you don't _have _to do it."

"_Yes_, I do."

"Why?!"

"I just do!" Peter rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"And why should it be you?" Claire choked, beginning to spill out things she'd previously kept locked away. "You're not made for this, Peter. Take what it's done to you. I mean, God, I've never seen you drink a day in your life, but something tells me you've been doing a lot more than sipping champagne at Nathan's parties. And then all these woman that come and go…you're not supposed to be like this!" she blurted out.

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe the _women _jump _me_?!"

"Oh, look at _you_," Claire bitterly scoffed, waving her hands around as she abandoned heartache for fury. "You really are an ego-trip, aren't you? Peter Petrelli the black caped hero! Women swoon into his arms faster than he can catch them!"

Peter scowled and crossed his arms. "It's not like that."

"Sure it's not," Claire spat, throwing all of Niki's make-up viciously back into the drawer. "You have no respect for anyone or anything, including yourself, you know! What's _happened _to you, Peter?!"

Peter exhaled resignedly, letting his pulse slow to a steady_ thump-thump_ in his thrice shattered ribcage. "You're right. I've done some bad things, Claire, for good reasons though," he breathed, just barely touching her on the shoulder to gain her trust once more. "But I'm getting older and...I think things might be starting to wear on me."

"You _think_?" Claire slowed her clearing of the vanity, but still didn't look at him. "So what are you gonna do about it? Make more empty promises? Run away like last time?"

"I can make a promise, and _hope _it won't be empty," Peter said quietly, letting his hand fall. "I've already made a couple today; what's one more?"

He paused, before adding, "But I can swear that I'll never run away from you again."

"Just tell me you'll go back to the way you were," Claire whispered, leaning over the sink. "No sex, no alcohol, no killing people just because they get in your way. Just go back to…"

She stopped before confessing something that would mortify her, and Peter accepted that as even enough.

Peter turned towards the door. "I'll try to make it happen someday. Hopefully."

But his heart wasn't in it, and both of them could tell. Peter had no more intention to walk the straight path then Claire had plans to become a cheerleader again. Sure, it could be a nice road sometimes, but he was a vigilante. A warrior for the underdogs. A breed of the toughest, most badass people on the planet that each wanted to die with a gun in their hand. Kindness, warmth, and caring were sacrifices that Peter was forced to make a long time ago so he could be ready to serve the greater good. It was why he kept his brother off of the fighting ring, too. Sylar's newly full heart didn't deserve to be charred.

Peter left the tiny space of the bathroom with remorse on his face before Claire could say anything more.

xxx

As Peter slowly treaded down Niki's hallway, Claire's tight-lipped, choked voice still rang in his ears. _Just go back to…_Go back to what? Being Old!Peter? Not possible, dear. As much as she pleaded, it wasn't going to happen. The best Peter could offer was a "merger of Niki and Jessica" so to speak, A bit of his old life, a bit of his new.

That is, if he actually had any parts of his old life he wished to keep. Hospice nursing, a family that hated him, a country that mourned him as a victim…

The day Peter Petrelli put on a trenchcoat and left it all behind, and even still after he got bar-coded, he was more free than he'd ever been in his life.

Any hopes for getting salvation outside the radius of Claire were long forgotten when Sylar approached Peter right after the scarred man left the bathroom.

"Uh…hey," Peter said awkwardly, trying to maneuver his way around his six foot tall kin. "What's goin' on?"

"Peter, when am _I _going to get to go on a mission?" Sylar arched a thick eyebrow, and for the first time since Kirby Plaza, Peter was slightly intimidated by his nicer brother.

"I dunno," Peter replied vaguely, pretending to play with his watch. "Someday."

"You've been saying that for three years," Sylar shot back desperatly, standing up to his full height to tower over Peter. "But you always put me in the control room, or behind the scenes."

Peter blinked, not understanding. "I thought you liked that job."

"Well, yes, but every once in a while-,"

Peter silenced him with a glare and a grasp to the shoulder. "We'll talk about this later. It's getting late. I've gotta go."

He finally brushed past his brother and headed to the door, Petey at his heels, but this time, Sylar had no intentions of going down without a good roaring battle to the death.

"Why can't I go on a mission, Peter? It's not that hard a question!"

The query stopped Peter in his tracks, and there were several long seconds of thick as butter silence before he finally replied.

"'Cause I'm not gonna let you turn into me," Peter said softly. He bowed his head in chagrin, never a man that wore his heart on his sleeve, but he seemed to be on a roll with such a practice today anyhow.

Sylar didn't move an inch, frozen by the weight of Peter's words. Still, after all they'd been through, Sylar wasn't so sure his brother was being truthful. Was the declaration sincere or just another cop out answer so he'd leave Peter alone?

He took a step towards his sibling. "That can't be the only reason," Sylar distressingly insisted. "I know you're just telling me what I want to hear."

Peter finally turned around, scowling. "Then what _don't _you wanna hear?!" he exploded, his emotional dam collapsing. "How about you'd _fail _on a mission, okay?! You're a terrible liar, you stick out in a crowd, and you couldn't seduce a woman if your life depended on it!"

Sylar gaped at his brother's outburst. "Seducing? What does THAT have to do with saving the world!" he exclaimed indignantly, waving his arms around in disbelief.

"Everything," Peter said. "Tonight's mission? I've gotta get a stripper to take me up to her room, and then _convince her _to hand over some information. Or did you not get the memo about where I'll be at two in the morning?"

Sylar narrowed his large, brown eyes. "It seems that I missed the briefing, then. But I can see how people tick Peter, just like you can. You might be surprised at my people skills if you gave me a chance to experiment with them for once."

"Trust me," Peter glowered back. "You'd come home five minutes into it. It would be like walking into a mine field for someone like you."

"But I'm guessing it's just another day at work for _you_," snapped a voice from the left that most definitely wasn't Sylar's.

Peter's heart stopped. Claire stood in the doorway, her being saturated with distraught. The young man's mind was already racing. _How much did she hear? What must she think of me, now that the gig is up and she knows about Betty? _

But before Peter could speak, she'd already spun out of the room and down the hallway, loud stomps echoing as she strode off.

"Claire!" Peter groaned, rushing after her. He managed to catch up just in time to grab her by the wrist before she could lock herself in the guest bedroom. However, Claire still put up a good fight. Her body writhed in his grasp, begging to be released, and Peter, peacekeeper for a day, granted her freedom.

He held his palms up in truce. "Claire, God, I swear, it's not-,"

"Go to _hell_ you liar," Claire hissed, ignoring anything else that came out of Peter's fast-talking lips. One second, she was a foot in front of him, and the next, a locked door created a barrier between the feuding pair. Peter urgently smacked on the door, pleading to be let in, to talk, yet Claire refused to give him the time of day.

Peter's dry mouth tasted of copper as his body slid down the door, to eventually end up kneeling against it. Him and his loud mouth…the original plan was to let Claire live in ignorant bliss, for his sake and hers. The mission he was about to embark on was Murphy's Law waiting to happen, and Claire the Realist was sure to be upset over it.

Though, why _should_ shehave cared? Peter wondered internally. It's not like she gave a damn about him anyway.

But alas, the world. Claire did care about that, and unfortunately, Peter's success versus his failure tonight determined the fates of all. No wonder she was so pissed; she didn't trust him with her freedom, her life, her ability.

So yeah. She had a right to be hissy. However, that didn't mean she needed to be a total bitch about it. It's not like he _wanted _to bang some strange pole-dancer. But for a woman like that, some good rolling in bed was probably the best motivation and trust gainer. Either that or a truckload of cash, which Peter, no anyone he knew, had access to at the moment. He was already blowing the remainder of those agents' dollars, as well as some cash from Micah's piggy bank, on getting Betty alone with him in her suite.

Then there was his slight promise to her in the bathroom. Oh. _Oh. _Claire didn't honestly believe that…?

"Claire!" Peter shouted again, banging on the guest room's door. His eyes moved up and spotted Petey leaning against the hallway's far wall, looking rather sulky. If the shadow had lips, they most likely would have been pursed and protruding in a very Peter-like pout.

Peter's eyes stayed transfixed on his own personal mimic as the silhouette padded silently over to Claire's door, until it loomed over Peter himself. A shadowy hand rested forlornly against the wood of the door, and Petey bowed his head in longing.

If only she could understand that his mission tonight had no reflection on his vowed turnaround. Besides, it was a weak, open-endedpromise in the first place, and he still kept his true word: he would never leave her alone...

…with Sylar, that is. He'd have to be a sick madman to attempt such a ridiculous action.

Yet, the more he thought about it, the more bitter that train tasted. Sure, he despised the thought of Claire running into Sylar's arms (now more than ever), but even if his brother wasn't in the picture, Peter would have ripped his own heart out before abandoning Claire again. Which, come to think of it…

What _if _his brother wasn't there to complicate things? Peter loved Sylar, and tried his best to look out for him like Sy looked after Peter himself, but the tension between the two had never quite died out. Where would Claire's loyalties lie if it was just him, Peter, caring for her?

Petey plopped down next to him without making a sound. It was a weird time to be amazed by the shadow's constant silence, but any thought to take Peter's mind off Claire was invited in with open arms.

"What now?" Peter asked his mute shadow.

Petey shook his head miserably, his only offering of advice being a lethargic shrug.

xxx

After Peter had gone gallivanting after his upset bonnie lass, Sylar retreated to Micah's abode to prepare for the mission. Fortunately, the wiz kid already had the security cameras hacked and streaming on his one of a kind, five-star, handmade computer screen. Sylar's job was to simply keep a bird's eye view on everything; just make sure the mission was going according to plan (and that no one got shanked).

Normally, he wouldn't have been so laid-back about a secondhand job, but in the face of a boy far greater than he, Sylar was content to sit pretty and let the big kid run the show. Micah, that is. Peter, on the other hand, Sylar still hadn't let go of his metal voodoo chokehold on.

_Be careful what you wish for_, he mused, reclining in the rolling chair beside Micah's desk. He sought out the answers for questions that need not be responded to, yet again and again, Sylar's curiosity got the best of him. It was his Achilles' heel, no doubt about it. Curiosity killed the killer.

"Peter, hurry up!" Sylar called irritably, glancing at the digital clock on Micah's desk. He'd never gotten in the habit of checking his own watch; it had always been broken, after all. "It's getting late! You need to leave now if you're gonna do this!"

Before the amnesiac inhaled another breath, Peter was storming into the room, appearing just as riled and short-tempered as Sylar.

"I'm here, now. Happy?" he snapped, checking Claire's make-up job on his face in the mirror one last time. All the pieces seemed to be in place: his tux, the lack of scar, the wad of cash in his pocket that would go to a terrible purpose. And last but not least, a print out of the letter Micah dug up, from Sophia to "C."

Micah pointed a thumb towards the LCD screen, which displayed several little windows from the Montecito's security cameras. "We'll be watching and listening, so you don't need a wire tonight."

Peter's expression warmed up instantly off the boy's presence. "Good; they're a pain. But don't stay up all night keeping an eye on me, okay? I'll…figure something out."

"It's not a problem," Micah waved a hand. "I always stay up really late."

Peter didn't press the issue, secretly feeling relieved to know that _someone _would be watching his back. Even if that back might end up being naked in some of that security footage.

"Here goes nothing. I'll see you soon." Peter sighed, giving his tie a good tug before teleporting away.

No one even heard Claire, who sat eavesdropping outside Micah's room, whisper "Goodbye."

xxx


	13. Delilah

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, except some random characters here and there. I'll usually point it out when I own it. Also, I'd like to give credit to the shadow idea to my dear friend Jessica.

**Chapter Twelve**

"**Delilah"**

Teleporting straight into a night club should have been dangerous, but strangely, no one ever seemed to notice. Then again, Peter tried his best to land in an inconspicuous dark corner, and succeeded in such an attempt. He watched the Montecito's Brassieres like a fly on the wall as the nightclub/strip show jumped around him. It was slightly jolting. As much as Peter loved the feel of a woman's skin under his cracked palms, the closest place he'd ever been to a stripper had been through a television screen.

The club faintly smelled of smoke, sweat, and cocktails, everyone's small glass drinks shaking slightly off the booming techno music. Yet the only women in small, tight clothing were the strippers; granted, some women had more scantily clad dresses then others, but everyone was still formally dressed. It was like a wedding reception on speed.

Peter shouldered his way out of the corner and headed to the glass bar, illuminated with a rainbow of neon lights underneath the counter. He hunched his shoulders and leaned forward, trying to look casual, but secluded all the same. Normally, making a scene to get the job done wouldn't be a problem. That, however, was for simple retrievals.

_This_ was for the fate of his entire race, and Peter'd be damned before he'd screw over the only shot he had at protecting the world.

"Can I get you anything?" the young bartender asked amiably, subtly drawing Peter's eye line to the cosmo mixer he was thumbing.

Peter swallowed hard, and mustered up every ounce of shame he'd felt the last time he'd drank. The disgusted look on Claire's face when she learned of yet another vice. Sylar's weak arms forced to be strong as his brother lugged his body, passed out in a whisky induced haze, to a clean room.

He felt a tug on the bottom of his slacks, and spotted Petey, crouched beneath the bar, looking up at him in what he guessed was expectancy. Peter bit back a snort. His shadow was turning into a nagging old wife.

"Just a Sprite, thanks," Peter muttered to the man on the other side of the counter. At least the soda would have lemon _in it, _as close as he was going to get to some good ol' lemon PEZ to scare the craze of booze away.

The bartender's cheerful manner dropped a notch, disappointed with the basic order, and he went in the back to pour Peter a Sprite. Peter was already reluctantly fishing two bucks out of his pocket, even though he knew that such a price was ridiculous for half a can's worth of soda. But when in Rome, do as Romans do, and he was forced to play by their rules tonight anyway.

The kid stopped making his drink halfway through to take an order from another customer. Peter's insightful watch followed him to the opposite side of the elliptical bar. A young woman, rather pretty but with a sort of boyish smile and a flippy sort of style to her brown hair, was chatting up the bartender. Peter distinctly saw her slip him a few bills, but whether they were singles or twenties, it was too dark in the room to tell.

It _wasn't _too dark, however, to see the flirty wink the woman shot right at Peter before she disappeared into the pulsating crowd. Peter peered after her, frowning, not sure if this was something to be cautious about. Most likely, she was just a hot chick looking for some action, and Peter, who'd been sitting alone and casual, (and looking pretty fly in that suit too, if he did say so himself) was an open target just _asking _for a girl to buy him a drink.

The bartender disappeared behind the screen wall again, and, Peter assumed, started back on the Sprite. _What, does he have to go fetch the lemons for it? _It was taking _forever_.

Peter's mind was ripped away from his slow drink maker as the hip music slowed to a stop and the crowd of people around him began their applause. He took a glance at his watch. 10:30 on the dot.

It was time for the main event.

"Ladies and gentlemen…" announced a voice from the intercom. "Now, on center stage, the temptress you've all been waiting to see…"

Peter's stomach clenched in anticipation, and he distantly felt Petey squeeze his ankle.

"…Betty!"

Cheers broke out through the whole audience, and Peter's neutral expression deepened. The gorgeous blonde haired dancer of most men's wildest dreams sauntered out onto center stage as seductive music pumped out of the speakers. The crowd cheered again, before going back to their gyrations.

Peter sunk lower down into the barstool, turning his eyes away. Sharing the sanctity of a night together with a timid damsel was one thing, but Peter had never approved of stripping. He couldn't see the appeal of fake, plastic strangers flaunting their bodies. The practicality to the dancer _herself, _he understood; it was great money. But why anyone would actually get _entertainment_ off such a bland thing…

Probably for the same reason that people watched wrestling, he presumed.

"Here you go, man." The bartender snapped him out of his reverie, sliding a small, crystal glass of Sprite towards him. Peter smiled in thanks and went to pay him, but the bartender held up a palm.

"It's on the house. Just thank your secret admirer."

Peter blinked, though judging from the actions of that brunette woman, he wasn't too surprised. And though he was hardly in the mood for romancing because of the acidlike stress streaming through his veins, at least he got a free drink.

Betty was still prancing around on stage, nimble fingers undoing the stings on her corset with grace. She wasn't even _that _pretty now that Peter really looked at her. She was too disproportionate, like a living Barbie doll. No, Peter preferred women who were real. A nice, plain, dark hair color. Naturally tanned skin. Shorter than average too, because it made them sort of cute. He knew women hated to be called "cute"; they'd much rather be "sexy" or "beautiful", but women who actually _were _those were total ego trips. Peter found that the most wonderful women were actually "cute", because they'd always blush instead of stick their nose up when he complimented them.

He sipped his drink in silence, turning away from the show once again. A small smile of appreciation settled on his lips at the bartender, for the extra stir-in of lemon juice in his Sprite. The kid definitely had a pure talent for seeing people's tastes.

Then, Peter briefly wondered if it was more then just talent, and if the young man possibly had something resembling a barcode on his wrist as well.

Betty's act finished swiftly, to a roaring praise, which Peter took as a good sign to swig down the rest of the Sprite and get to work.

xxx

Claire waited two minutes before entering Micah's "lair" after Peter's departure. She, the ever good spy, even sneaked to the other side of the hall, slammed the door, and made sure her footsteps were heard as she stomped down the hall.

Right before she turned the knob on Micah's door, she caught her reflection in the mirror across the hall. Mirrors littered Niki's house in the first place, so Claire almost passed it by. But the whites of her eyes, now bloodshot, caught her own gaze.

Claire viciously rubbed them and glared at her image, before continuing into Micah's room.

"Claire." Sylar stood up from his rolling chair as she entered. "Peter's already gone."

"Whatever," she grumbled, padding over to the two young men. "What's going on?"

"Peter's getting a drink at the bar," Micah boredly clarified. "So far, you haven't missed anything."

"He's drinking?" Claire said, alarmed.

"We're pretty sure it's just a soda," Sylar assured her. "The sound is really bad though, because of the music."

"But Sylar says he can read lips," Micah told her, with a look on his face that showed what he _really _thought of Sylar's claimed "talent."

"Yes, I can," Sylar protested. "I read a book on it, and I remembered all of it. I know sign language too, as a matter of fact."

Micah merely rolled his eyes, and gestured to a chair on the other side of the room. "Wanna watch, Claire?"

The girl bore holes into the fabric of the rolling chair that Micah pointed to, and her blockades broke.

"Guess it won't kill me," she said weakly, pulling the seat up to the computer desk, next to the others.

xxx

Peter mutely meandered his way through the distracted crowd, considering who to see about an escorting job. The bouncer? A security guard? The lady at the front desk? Betty herself?

Petey followed along on the floor, acting as a normal shadow would. Which of course meant getting stepped on by dozens of half drunk, sweaty men and women with three inch heels. Peter could distantly feel his shadow's annoyance, as though the emotion was just barely there, able to slip through his fingers at the drop of a hat.

Eventually, Peter reached a place that looked promising. A small pathway in the back, with a banner reading "Employees Only" was just what Peter could use.

Of course, he disregarded the sign completely, and stepped over the barrier with ease.

The pulsating vibrations from the club faded away the farther Peter walked along, and soon, he was surrounded by plain walls in a well lighted corridor. It was a bittersweet step forward. One, he was getting closer. But on the other hand, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Needless to say, he immediately started thinking of Claude Raines before heading to the left.

But apparently, his A-game wasn't on tonight, or that bartender had added a shot of liquor to his drink after all, because he was effortlessly caught from his lapels by a burly looking guard.

"What the hell do you think you're doing back here?" snarled the employee, shoving Peter against a wall. Though his tone was tough, it was also irritated and tired. Clearly, this club faced peeping toms rather often.

"N-nothing!" Peter stammered, laying an extra layer of fear into his voice. In reality, he knew he could kill this beast in a couple dozen ways then and there. Tonight, however, he _could not make a scene. _So he played it like a desperate wuss with girl trouble, because tears _did _have a time and a place.

"I-I heard Betty does es-escorting!" he quickly explained, even pretending to be in intense pain from the guard's stronghold.

Burlyman loosened his hold, sighing. "You have a reservation?"

Peter shook his head furiously, still faux quivering.

The guard released his grip entirely, pointing a thumb the way Peter came. "Then go make one with the bouncer. She's brunette, and has a nametag. She'll get you hooked up."

Peter beamed in relief. "Thanks. I'll do that," he breathed and backed away from the bodyguard. And just when he was about to turn and stroll back into the dark hallway, a girly voice stopped him.

"You were asking 'bout escorting?" cooed the woman. Peter's eyebrows went up as he turned around to face Betty, the belle of the ball.

"Uh…yeah," he nodded the slight surprise in his voice genuine. "The guard said I should go see the bouncer."

Betty smiled, nearly blinding him with her white teeth. "Nah, that's okay. I'm free tonight."

"Oh…well…that's really…great," Peter grinned. This was going even better then he'd planned. Until, he was reminded that there's no such thing as a free lunch.

Betty linked her arm with his and started to lead him to her dressing room when he asked that gut sinker of a question.

"Er…how much do you charge?"

The blonde stopped and turned to him. Her expression turned considerate, and she lightly ran her fingers across the side of his neck.

"Looks like Mark got you pretty rough, there," she mentioned sympathetically, pulling her fingers away from the small bruise on Peter's neck. "So for your troubles, and cause you're cute," she winked, "I'll give you a nice rate. Just fifty an hour, hun."

Fifty an hour? He might as well have paid her dirt. The main act of Linderman's ritziest hotel must have charged at least $400 an hour on a normal basis.

"Thanks," Peter said gratefully, pulling his wallet out as they entered the dressing room. He plucked a couple twenties and two fives out of the leather folds, and handed it to the dancer.

"Just one hour?" she pouted.

"Sorry," Peter cringed apologetically. "I don't have much time."

Betty tutted understandingly. "Got a lady to get back to?"

Peter thought hard about how to answer that question before replying, "No, not really. It's just late and I live sort of far away."

"So you're single?" Betty arched an eyebrow. She stopped her fussing about and grabbed a silk robe to cover the scanty lingerie she wore.

"Pretty much." He could say no. _Why _could he just give her a straight answer? It would have been so much simpler, he thought. After all, he had no girlfriend, wife, or mistress, so it _wouldn't _have been a lie.

Yet proclaiming solitaire still felt like one.

"You never did tell me your name," Betty commented, breaking him out of his daydreams.

"I'm…" Peter began, not sure of how to respond to that question either. "Peter…Bennet."

"P-B," Betty smiled, noticing his fake initials. "Like peanut butter."

She walked over to him and looked at her 24k gold watch. "One hour isn't a lot of time."

"Yeah, I know, but-,"

Betty silenced him with a finger to his lips, prompting Peter to frown.

"So we better get to work pretty soon, shouldn't we Mister Bennet?" Betty's mouth turned up into a seductive smile that made Peter feel sick. Or maybe it was just the fact that she said "Mr. Bennet," which made him think of _Noah _Bennet, who always had a way of making Peter feel nervous and ill.

Betty entwined her fingers with his and pulled him to his feet, still smiling like a Cheshire cat as she led him out of her dressing room.

xxx

Claire, Micah and Sylar sat huddled around the single computer screen, suffocatingly close. Their six eyes combined each stung with the strain of staring at the monitor for so long, the only change of pace occurring when Micah switched to a different camera. They were staring at Peter and Betty in the dressing room when things started to get interesting.

"_I'm…Peter Bennet."_

"_P-B. Like peanut butter." _

Sylar snorted. "Bennet. Nice."

Claire however, sat up slightly straighter in her chair. Until _this _lovely exchange reached her ears:

"_One hour isn't a lot of time."_

"_Yeah, I know, but-,"_

"_So we better get to work pretty soon, shouldn't we?" _

Claire scowled up the floozy woman that the screen's pixels conjured. "She doesn't waste any time, does she?" she gritted out.

"Maybe Peter has nice pheromones," Micah suggested. Sylar understood, but Claire had no clue what a pheromone was, and didn't really give a damn one way or the other.

xxx

Within a few minutes, they were up in Betty's special suite, on a floor that seemed to be abandoned. The woman pulled Peter in eagerly by the hand, giggling like a schoolgirl as she shut the door behind her.

Peter soaked up his surroundings with awe. A giant atrium window looked out upon the Vegas horizon. Thousands of multi-colored lights from outside shone onto the suite's walls, making the place seem like an elegant acid trip. All except for the bedroom, a spacious spot tucked away to the side. The bedroom was the epitome of sensuality, all down to the unlit candles that laced the wardrobe and end tables.

He wondered bitterly if this was the same room that Nathan and Niki had shaken the bed in all those years ago.

"Ain't in nice in there?" Betty caught him staring at the bed, with its Egyptian cotton sheets and gold trimmed comforter. Her hands slid smoothly across his shoulders, beckoning him to shrug off his tuxedo jacket. Peter did as she suggested without complaint; it was sort of warm in the hotel room anyhow, or that might have just been the hot pumping of his blood. Betty hung his coat up and gave him a suggestive nudge in the side prior to heading off to the kitchen.

Peter found himself gulping rather than getting hard.

"Want some champagne? Some nice red wine?" she asked amiably, crossing over to an ice bucket on the dining table. "I've got some really great years over here."

"No thanks, I don't drink," Peter fibbed, rubbing his wrist. His powers were already acting up tonight, which he blew off as stress. Alcohol of any kind was sure to destroy him from the inside out.

"You sure? What about some chocolate? I hear it's an aphrodisiac, you know."

Peter turned around to glance down at Petey, who was still behaving himself. Marvelous, how the figure could turn from solid to a perfect mimic on demand.

"Nah," he called absently, still staring down at the carpet. But then, a female shadow sped forward towards his, entwining with Petey.

He looked up from the floor to find Betty pressed against his front, a small chip of black chocolate between two perfectly painted fingernails.

"You sure?" she whispered, running the tip of the sweet across Peter's bottom lip. He unwillingly parted his lips just enough so she could slide the fudge onto his warm tongue.

"That tastes good?" she husked right into his ear as she craned her head forward. The chocolate was as dark as it could come, and so bitter that Peter longed to spit it out. He never really liked chocolate, but he especially hated _dark _chocolate. Why make candy that tastes like dirt, honestly?

But Peter didn't reply, and Betty took any lack of "no" as a "yes."

"What about this?" she asked, right before she pressed her mouth against his, slipping her tongue in just as she'd done with the chocolate.

No, she didn't taste good. She tasted like an _ashtray_, even worse then the cocoa. It wasn't even something that could be tastelessly enjoyed, either. Betty seemed experienced, but all it felt like to Peter was a sloppy mouth being smashed roughly against his.

It was yet another addition to the list of turn-offs that plagued this situation. Peter was getting more and more reluctant about this. Betty was coming on to him _way _too hard. Though he felt a little flattered in the beginning, his paranoid side was still going off like a siren. That chocolate could have been laced with God only knows what, and Betty might have been trying to distract him from his mission.

Then again, this promised night was putting a damper on her plans as well, unless she intended to give him a quickie then go fetch the schematics. Which, in that case, he'd have to pull out some guns that he definitely didn't want to fire.

All he could do was pray that perhaps Betty was just an innocent, sex addicted whore or something.

"Aren't we…going a little fast?" he managed to gasp out in between lust filled, but empty kisses.

"I thought you only had an hour, sweetie," Betty reminded him, as she brought her wet mouth to his neck and sucked on the bruise that Mark the Mean Bodyguard left there.

"Yeah but I thought you were just gonna…give me a…lap dance or something." He squirmed under her grip, putting on that inexperienced youth mask for the second time that night.

Betty grinned against his neck. "Not for you, baby. I told you. You're real cute, Peter."

Well, then.

xxx

"I'm thirsty," Claire declared, getting up from her seat. "And I have a feeling this is gonna get gross."

"_Going _to?" Sylar said, looking at her significantly. "I've already lost all trace of appetite."

Claire's lips turned up into a small smile. "Then I guess you don't want me to bring you anything back from the kitchen?"

"No." Sylar stood up as well, now. "But I'll go with you. I'm getting thirsty too. The computer's heat has got this room feeling like a sauna."

Claire nodded and directed that next question at Micah. "You want anything?"

Micah waved a hand in response, not tearing his eyes away from the risqué couple formed in liquid crystal.

Sylar shrugged at her, not looking back before following her lead to the fridge.

xxx

A pair of slender hands traveled up his chest and tugged at his tie, undoing the knot with practiced ease. A groan, followed by some bile, worked its way up Peter's throat. With his eyes closed, he was already starting to feel turned on. But when he remembered that it was some strange, fake woman that he met not ten minutes ago untucking his dress shirt and starting to undo the buttons, his arousal fell flat.

An emotion that left an aftertaste much like guilt saturated his throat, and he couldn't help but feel dirty doing this. Dirty for obvious reasons, of course, since he had a chain smoking stranger writhing on him, but a deep seated shame fought a war in his chest in addition to that.

Perhaps all this seduction could be bypassed. Betty seemed to like him well enough. She was prepared to give her body to him at a cheap cost, when she wasn't even a prostitute in the first place, and he'd barely made a move. What if he simply _asked _her where her schematics were?

"Uh…" he coughed, gently peeling Betty's roaming hands off of his abs. When he opened his eyes, he saw a confused and disappointed expression on her young features.

"What's wrong?" The blush on her cheeks could have been from heat and sweat, or mortification. Maybe a mix of both.

"It's not you," Peter white lied. "I can't…"

Betty's eyes widened and she glanced below his belt. "Oh, you can't…"

"No!" he exclaimed at once, catching her drift. "God, no. It's…" He sighed, forced to be as blunt as possible in explaining this. "I'm not here for…_that._"

Betty crossed her arms over chest, framing her gargantuan breasts. "Then what are you here for? You paid me."

Peter rubbed his forehead, and flatly inquired, "Where are the schematics?"

Betty blinked. "You need…schematics?"

Peter rolled his eyes, beginning to lose his patience. "I know you know what I'm talking about. Those schematics that Sophia Linderman is giving to you tonight. Where are you meeting her? Where is she now?"

Betty backed away from him, weirded out, her face blanching. "Sophia Linderman? I've never met her in my life, but I've heard terrible things! What do you want with her?!"

Fear flashed in her eyes as she pressed herself against the wall behind her. Then, Peter saw the next event happen in slow motion, and even telekinesis couldn't stop it.

A large, red button protruded from the wall, a button that Peter had seen enough Vegas showgirl documentaries to know about. Every stripper had them to protect from a would-be rapist or groper.

A panic button. Or, in laymen's terms, a silent alarm that would send every overprotective muscle on legs to break down the door to rip Peter's dick from his body.

And Betty just pressed it.

"No, no, no!" Peter cried, outstretching a hand and gritting his teeth. But the damage was done. All he could do now was wait for his execution.

"Stand against the wall! Don't move!" Betty screeched, and Peter obliged to sooth her fears.

"I'm not here to hurt you, I swear!"

"You can't go looking for Linderman!" Betty stammered back.

Peter resisted the urge to grunt in frustration. So this was some sort of "I'm trying to protect you by locking you away" deal, wasn't it? Fantastic.

"Betty, you have to trust me, okay?" he said, exasperated.

Peter looked across at the sniveling woman with confusion, disdain, and slight sympathy. Her tears seemed genuine, but there was too much evidence against her. There was nearly no way that she _wasn't _Sophia's partner in crime.

"I saw that email she sent to you. She said that the drop would happen after your shift. And apparently, your name isn't _Betty_, either."

"My real name is Rebecca," she admitted, "but I never got an email! She never talks to me, and I've never met her or heard from her!"

"OPEN THE DOOR!" Loud thumps erupted throughout the room as that fleet of monsters arrived.

"Then who hired you?" Peter shot out as quickly as he could, grabbing her arms and nearly shaking her.

"The bouncer, Candice," Betty sniffed. "She runs the whole club. She even gave me my stage name."

"THREE…TWO…!"

Peter nearly tackled her and held the frightened woman closer to his chest, protecting her from the blast that was about to explode into the hotel room.

"ONE!"

_Crack. _The door blew out of its frame, and skidded across the floor, followed by five or six guards with nightsticks. The last to enter the room was a pretty brunette woman with flippy hair and a black polo.

The same woman who bought Peter a drink at the bar, in fact. And only now, close up, could Peter tell that her nametag read _Candice. _

xxx

"Milk or green tea?"

Claire poked her head up, looking at Sylar from over the fridge door. The man wore a look of disgust on his rough features.

"I think I'll take water," he replied safely. After a couple cabinet searches, Sylar managed to find a glass, which he leisurely filled up with water from the tap.

Claire watched him with mock disparagement, making a big show about how _she _picked green tea. She preferred sweet tea, Texan girl that she was, but she could settle for its Asian cousin in some cases.

"Where's Niki? You think she'd care if I raided her fridge?" Claire asked, taking a gulp from a bottle of Sobe.

Sylar nudged his head towards the hall. "She's in her bedroom, lying down I think. She told me she kept hearing really high pitched noises."

Claire mused if a certain _Micah _may have had something to do with that. He was a tech genius after all.

"Like I said…how can you even eat after…?" Sylar left his wince worthy statement open ended and unsaid.

Claire took one look at the string cheese in her hand and put it back. "Good point," she agreed, grinning. "I think I threw up a little in my mouth."

Sylar chuckled, taking a swig of water. "You'd think that I'd have gotten used to it by now." His face fell forlorn, and he gingerly set the water down on the counter as though it was filled with blood.

"I'm sorry," Claire said honestly. "I overheard your fight with Peter right before he left. It must be frustrating."

Sylar was apathetic. "Sometimes. But he's still right; I'd be terrible at it. Yet, he's never been open minded about the possibility that I could _learn. _I learn everything else very well. Why would the art of seduction be anything unique?"

"Well, it's not a science," Claire pointed out. "I know you're smart and logical and all, but with love, and lust…you've sort of got to…go with it."

"That's not much help," Sylar responded dryly, but he took her advice seriously.

Claire hesitated, before looking at him forthrightly. "I meant what I said in the diner, you know. About… how you can have a chance with anyone you want. Just be yourself. You're a great guy, Sylar. You just need to break out of your shell a little and _show _people."

If someone had told her five years, hell, even a _month _ago that she'd be saying such a thing to Sylar, Homecoming murderer and general enemy of superheroes, she would have laughed in their face.

"How can I be myself if I don't even know my name?!" Sylar objected.

Claire stepped towards him and tenderly touched his shoulders. "You're more then just your identity. You're a whole person…you're kind, sensitive, smart...a past doesn't mean anything. All that matters is who you are _now _and who you _will _be."

When he still didn't seem to budge, a sudden burst of inspiration occurred to her, and without warning, she wrapped one arm around Sylar's waist and entwined the other hand with his. The young man's body clenched at the contact, but Claire laughed breezily as she began to spin him around in an awkward waltz.

"What are you doing?" Sylar blurted out, staring straight down onto a head of brown hair.

Claire grinned. "Dancing, to _show you _that some things you don't need to _think _about."

Sylar's gangling limbs stuck out from their combined form as the pair clumsily spun around in Niki's small kitchen. Claire's pearly whites still shone, her eyes cheerfully closed, but a blush was beginning to creep across Sylar's cheeks the more he stepped on her delicate feet.

Sylar halted, letting his hands fall loosely to rest on Claire's elbows. "I'm sorry...I kept stepping on your feet and…"

Claire didn't mind. "You're a foot and half taller then me, and we're in a tiny kitchen. What did you expect?"

Her point was not lost on him, but yet he still failed to understand the original topic. "But this still proves it," he moaned, letting go of her completely and slumping dejectedly against the counter. "Peter was right."

"No, he's not!" Claire cried fiercely. "You've got to stop letting _him _control your life!" She stopped and sighed, looking at him hopelessly. "Just…you're still overthinking this."

They sat in silence for a couple moments as Claire chewed over the possibilities.

"You need to find something that you can just _do," _she said slowly. "Something impulsive."

Her vision locked with his, and Sylar felt his chest warm with a sudden burst of confidence. Hell, nothing else could have empowered him to do what he was about to. Every trick he'd seen his brother pull out, every move that he'd witnessed Cary Grant do in those old Hitchcock movies, flashed before his eyes.

"Impulsive like this?" he asked huskily, just as he'd seen Peter do so many times before. As soon as the silky baritone passed his lips, he was kissing her ardently, his knuckles just barely grazing over her feather soft cheek. He was like a man possessed all of a sudden with an keen hunger to _taste _her; to hell with morals and self conciousness.

Which was over before it even started.

He pulled away as quickly as he'd kissed her when reality hit him at Mach 5. Claire lifted her heavy eyelids, gaze flicking back and forth like R.E.M, trying to figure out what to make of that. Sylar's own eyebrows were high on his forehead, as if he couldn't even fathom what he's just done. As if the event was a fuzzy memory from a dream.

"I-I'm sorry, I don't know what got into-," he stammered, but was cut short when Claire grabbed his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers again. She might not have loved _him _but she could pretend that he was…well, she could _pretend_.

And then all was still; both of them stood frozen in the grand universe, not quite sure what to do next. It was most assuredly not like their kiss in the diner, which had a lighter, friendlier tone. The weight of Claire's gentle lips on Sylar's matched the depth of the seriousness lingering in the air.

Seconds ticked by, and then time finally shattered into oblivion as Sylar moved his mouth open ever so slightly. That alone sparked a chain reaction of groping hands, careening limbs, and a tango of tongues. Claire buried her nails into his collar, pulling him close enough to share heat. With a primal groan, Sylar turned them around and sandwiched the girl between his body and the wall.

Sylar's hands had a mind of their own, tracing invisible lines down Claire's hourglass shape. His skin reached out for hers, longing to feel that connection of flesh to flesh, warmth to warmth. He then realized that Claire was only part right. His mind may have been put on the backburner like she'd suggested, but it wasn't his_ heart_ that was leading him down this path. It was animal instinct. The carnal male hunger for a mate. Sylar was always fascinated by the subject; it had been such a simple answer all along, yet his own knowledge let him down.

However, even through their passion, Sylar couldn't help but feel like something was missing.

The lust was like an expired Oreo…it was chocolate with icing, but it still tasted stale. Sparkless. Meaningless. Sad truth was, this even started to dawn on Sylar, who, after pining for Claire for days, was ultimately disappointed in their passion, or lack thereof.

Parts of him that he'd never used were awakened, and maybe this explained his attraction to her all along. Goddamn Mother Nature. Claire was lovely, but even as their mouths danced, Sylar came to the epiphany that she wasn't right for him. She was too small, not fitting right against his frame, and the spark he'd hoped to ignite this whole time still wouldn't catch fire. She was just the first female ever to take notice of him, and he'd gotten himself worked up in an overly hopeful tizzy.

And as if the situation couldn't get any worse, Claire, her sharp nails digging into his brown hair, suddenly moaned, "_Peter…'_

xxx

"Let go of her!" Candice snapped, pushing her way through the miasma of guards. Peter listened, immediately releasing Betty from his grip and holding up his palms.

_C'mon Petey, _he thought with his teeth gritted. But when he glanced downward, his usually active shadow was anything but extraordinary.

Candice lightly grabbed Betty's arm and pushed her to the guards, half of whom led the dancer out of the suite. The bouncer turned to Peter and gave him a long, haughty look.

"Peter Petrelli," she announced triumphantly. Peter wasn't very shocked.

"You bought me a drink," he remarked coolly.

Candice nodded. "Mmm-hmm. Which I saw you down pretty quick, thankfully, or this would be a lot rougher."

Peter had no clue what that meant, but the soldier's sense in the base of his skull was buzzing like a bee in heat.

"You're Sophia Linderman's real accomplice, aren't you?" he said quietly, a light bulb going off in his brain. It was so clear now…_C…after you get off of your shift…protect them…_

Candice's cheeks moved up, pulling her lips into a nasty smile. "You catch on fast."

One burst of telekinesis could save his ass. Just one little blast of power collected from the deepest roots in his brain…whatever was causing this lapse in ability, whether it was alcohol or stress, couldn't have been permanent. There was a way around everything.

Peter balled his hands into tight fists before releasing as much energy as he could muster out at Candice and the two heavyset guards flanking her. A loud grunt escaped him as he threw his whole body into the shot, hands outstretched towards them like channels of horsepower.

Only after a couple seconds did Peter realize that absolutely nothing had happened. He stood half-lunging, feeling like a total fool while his rivals smirked, obviously resisting the urge to snicker at his expense. There was no telekinesis, or power, or big wave of energy. There was simply nothing. His powers were dead as though he'd never even had them in the first place.

"Grab him," Candice instructed the guards, yawning. "He's coming with me."

Peter's feeble swats at the sentinels, who were both a good head taller than he (_damn stunted growth), _were futile. The men viciously held each of his arms and pulled him out of the room to trail behind Candice. And now that he thought back on it, how could he have been so stupid? Mark's fervor left a bruise on his neck. Petey wouldn't respond, because Petey wasn't _there _anymore. The furious tug of being dragged down this mysterious corridor and tossed helplessly into an elevator with Candice _hurt_, and with Claire's power, it shouldn't have.

And as he began to shake with genuine fear as the elevator doors closed before his eyes, the only thing he could think of was that his friends back at the Sanders' _better _have been watching this bullshit.

Or else.

xxx


	14. Jericho

Thanks for everyone's support ) I never realized how many people were into this story. It's really humbling, ya'll, and I want to thank you for every word that you take the time to read. It means a million. XD

As usual, I don't own anything. And the shadow power is curtosy off my good friend Jessica. )

**Chapter Thirteen**

"**Jericho"**

As his ebony boots crossed them, the white tiles under Peter's feet squeaked far too noticeably, far too _purposefully_. Peter wondered, somewhere in the back of his clouded mind, if this was how John Coffey when he was walking down the Green Mile.

Petrelli's heart hammered in his chest, faster with every stretch forward. His face was unblinking, calmly stoic, and he pretended that the screech of his feet on the tiles could cover up the beat of his racing pulse.

"What's gonna happen to Rebecca?" he asked darkly, still looking straight ahead as he and Candice walked adjacent to one another. Candice's permanent smirk grew wider to his left.

"Betty? Nothing. She's getting ready for her next show. She's been in the dressing room this whole time."

Peter halted abruptly, staring at her with steel in his eyes. Candice didn't seem too alarmed by his sudden shock.

"What do you mean she's been there _all along_?"

"Oh, none of it was real," Candice replied openly.

With no further explanation to what "none of it was real" meant, she roughly grabbed Peter's arm and continued to pull his stubborn form down the hall However, Peter viciously ripped his limb from her clutch, scowling at her and demanding details with his resolute expression alone.

"What is that supposed to _mean_? It happened! I'm not just dreaming this+I know it!"

Candice glared back at him with disdain, still rather unfazed. "I can make you see whatever I _want _you to see," she snipped back tersely, before going back to fiercely herding him down the indoor lane.

Peter's mind raced with the possibilities. An illusionist. And damn if he couldn't absorb her ability, his powers being deadened for whatever reason. Every answer he received felt like a pathway to ten more questions, until he was caught in a never ending labyrinth of empty confusion.

Finally, the motley pair reached a thick, opaque doorway off to the right. Candice shot him a foreboding look that just dared him to revolt, before opening Door #1.

There wasn't much of a prize behind the curtain- just a woman. Peter thought he recognized her, though he wasn't sure where exactly to place it. Just because he had super memory didn't mean that the occasional slip of the mind was improbable.

Dark, slightly dry red hair spilled from her scalp and down to her shoulders in easy waves. Though, even with the youthful styles she wore and the way she carried herself, Peter could tell by taking a close look at her face that she was quite an older lady. Maybe about as old as his "mother" even. The female before him sure did shine with the same arrogance as Angela Petrelli.

"You wanted to see us, Mrs. Linderman?" Candice asked. Peter grimly absorbed the words into his ears.

"Peter," Sophia remarked, standing up from the dingy desk at the front of the room. It was more of a large closet than a room, actually. There was just enough space for a couple metal chairs, and a small desk in which the nicely dressed woman had some paperwork splayed out. The walls were bare, white, and sterile, just like the tiling on the floor. But the grayish tint to the lights above them still gave the room an impression of being slightly dirty.

Candice held Peter by the collar and pulled him forward, as if he was a mischievous dog.

"Want me to frisk him?" Candice smiled, cocking her hip in a haughty, suggestive way.

Sophia's gaze flitted back between Candice's proud nod and Peter's distraught expression. The woman's aura wilted as quickly as it bloomed, and she waved a hand.

"Most definitely. He might be carrying arms."

Candice did so and Peter boredly obliged, holding his arms out so that his body resembled a breathing cross. Candice patted him down from shoulders to ankles, even with Peter's protests that it wasn't necessary.

"I don't use guns," he said impatiently.

The redhead snorted. "And how could that be? You've certainly had enough blood on your hands."

"I've been shot with enough of them to know it's a terrible way to die," Peter elucidated flatly.

Candice finished her searching of him and gave him his space. Linderman held out a hand towards the stiff chair in the middle of the room.

"Well now that that's finished…take a seat, Mister Petrelli."

Peter glanced at Candice scathingly. "And how do I know _this _isn't fake too?"

Before the shapeshifter could reply with a snappy retort, Peter was ripped from his position and tossed unceremoniously into the metal seat. He sat, dazed and aching from the force, trying to take in his surroundings even seconds after the event. At first he assumed it to be the result of telekinesis, but what he actually saw _really _put him up a creek…

"Real enough for you?" asked the older woman, arching a thin eyebrow quizzically.

Peter didn't hear her. His focus was too taken with the black, voluptuous shape hovering over his chair. The force which had _put him _in that chair in the first place.

Sophia Linderman's shadow, which miraculously walked free.

"Oh, and tell your friends watching that it's rather rude to be so nosy," Sophia added, looking significantly at the security cameras in the upper corners of the room. "I hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of shooing them out myself."

"You…" he breathed, gaze fixated on the exact silhouette of Sophia in front of him. He glanced significantly down at where Petey should have been. "You're the one who gave me…"

"Ah, is it familiar then? I figured as much. Yes, Peter, we've met, even though I didn't see you at the time." Her voice turned tart. "And quite honestly, I'm not too keen on the fact that you took my ability. It's almost like stealing, I think. Nearly as bad as stealing my husband's sword."

Peter recalled, now. When he'd gone to steal Hiro's katana back…the female at the front of the gallery, who he'd assumed was the curator, was Sophia. It was Sophia's fist that banged against the walls…Sophia's shadow that turned everything black before the scar branded his face…

The older woman gave Candice a long look, silently suggesting that the young illusionist was to leave them be. Candice nodded without question and quietly slipped out.

"But your stealing of my power, and even of an artifact, I can cope with," Sophia continued as though she hadn't been interrupted. The light accent to her voice, a remnant of an English immigrant long since naturalized, wafted into Peter's ears. "I cannot, however, handle the stealing of information. I'm positive that it was _you _who broke into my vault and saw my schematics. There's just one inconsistency…"

Sophia let him watch on in anticipation and she slowly flicked her tongue across the pad of her thumb. Peter's muscles clenched as the older woman walked at a tantalizingly sluggish pace over to him. A weighted aura of mystery still hung in the air as to was about to do to him.

Peter found himself flinching as Sophia leisurely ran her wet digit down the side of his left cheek, erasing away the make-up that masked his scar.

"Then I see my handiwork has not been lost on you after all," she hummed.

Peter still remained with his head craned away from her coral painted claws. "You did this?"

She nodded slightly wisely, looking back at her shadow. The creature slinked past Sophia and leaned forward, stretching a nimble hand outward to touch Peter's collarbone.

A great searing pain shot through his body from where the shadow touched him, and Peter bit back a horrifying scream. His head leaned back in agony as the shadow dragged it's black, fiery fingernail down, from his collar to his navel. With every inch of flesh that was burned way, Peter felt another octave of hurt threaten to shatter his pain threshold. Hot tears, a natural instinct to the anguish, started to form in his brown eyes, and he used every ounce of his waning energy to suck them back in.

The shadow pulled back, leaving her victim heaving and flushed. The stench of burning flesh came next, and Peter finally looked down to see a crimson burn all the way down his chest, tendrils of wispy smoke rising off of it. Yet another scar?

Sophia smirked. "Indeed."

xxx

In of his six years of memorable life, Sylar had seen only a small collection of films. Most of them were for movie nights with Mohinder; when Molly was in her tweens, she became quite fond of _The Princess Diaries. _Sylar recalled a certain moment from it, too- the protagonist, Mia Thermopolis, always assumed that her foot would pop up when she kissed her true love.

After watching the flick, accompanied with Molly's giggling, Sylar began to form his own assumptions about "foot poppery." Of course, as a grown man, he didn't think something so girly would apply to him. However, after years of bored research, Sylar had a set belief that when _he _kissed someone special, he'd undergo an Abraham Maslow theory entitled "The Peak Experience."

It was a premise that Mohinder said _he himself _mentioned, before the amnesia. When he kissed someone truly worthy of it, Sylar knew in his gut that he'd go…out of himself in someway. It would unleash a new wave of understanding upon him like the breaking of a dam. He'd feel feather light, erotic with revelation, consumed by one moment. Utterly one with life and love.

He knew Claire wasn't fit for him when he stayed on Earth.

"Mmph…" Claire groaned awkwardly against his mouth. "Pet-er…"

Sylar's roaming hands halted, and he pulled away from her a little bit. "Uh…"

At some point, Claire had wrapped her thighs around him (most likely to account for their fifteen inch height difference). As Claire's eyelids slowly rose, Sylar untangled her legs from his waist and set her down.

When she finally saw Sylar, uncertain expression and all, her cheeks flushed red while her lips turned white.

"Sylar! Oh my God, I'm-,"

"You're right," Sylar hastily interrupted. "About Peter. We should be getting back to him."

Claire's mouth hung open for a second. "Oh! Yeah, we…should…"

"Yes," Sylar nodded uncomfortably. He'd just agreed with himself. Gee, how superfluous.

Trains zoomed loudly in both Sylar and Claire's minds, meeting at certain places before spreading out in totally different directions. Sylar was a nice person, a good man. Normally, he'd feel a bit insecure about that fact, but kindness usually came as an instinct anyway.

That's why he spared Claire the mortification of her mistake.

He knew _exactly _why she moaned his brother's name, of course. Really, did she think him a moron? Peter and Claire had chemistry that was nearly tangible with Sylar's bare hands, and utterly impossible to overlookHe'd tried to pretend it wasn't there, to pretend that Claire's lovely eyes were always batted in his direction…but what did it matter anymore? If their clumsy mouth waltz had taught them anything, it was that Sylar and Claire were simply mismatched.

That didn't call for any harsh feelings, though. Playing dumb was never Sylar's forte, but he managed to muster it together this time for Claire's sake. Just because he was stung by her outburst didn't mean that _she _had to face the repercussions. Sylar was, as some would say, a merciful god, or perhaps just a gentleman.

Meanwhile, Claire was more concerned with her own internal Trojan War than Sylar's thoughts of her. God, why had she even kissed him back? It wasn't out of pity- that much she was certain. She didn't feel enough sorrow for the smart, seemingly perfect man to evoke _pity._

Caught up in the moment. Yes, that was it. She was simply flabbergasted and couldn't bear to push the poor guy away. Peter's brother. He was Peter's brother, and a nice one to boot, and he didn't deserve to have his heart broken again. Oh dear, it _was _pity.

_Oh, God. I'm such a bitch. _Claire sighed internally. _Or a whore. Or both. A bitchy whore. Wonderful. _

The reaction was perfectly explainable though: an impulsive mistake. However, the whiplashlike snap at the end wasn't nearly as generally understandable. She'd murmured Peter's name against another man's lips, and there was no denying that. There were a couple ways of weaseling out of the _reason, _but nothing could change the event.

Luckily, there was one little nugget of truth that no one could ever wring out of Claire, so help her God.

As soon as she slammed her mouth against Sylar's…she imagined she was kissing Peter. To some, like Sylar, it would have been obvious. Claire, on the contrary, found the revelation jolting and dizzying.

A sharp intake of breath swooped into her lungs, making her cough. All this time she'd been subconsciously trying to push those feelings down, dilute the chemistry that simmered between her and Peter. It partly worked, when she reminded herself of the odious freedom fighter he'd become. But at then end of the day, even through their haze of fights and disagreements and tears, the sparks still burned. There was always a rather soulmatey feeling between them that they'd buried away in the bonds of family, but it had never quite disbanded.

Besides…they weren't even family_ anymore_.

Peter and Claire's relationship was never meant to be pretty. They'd met on a night filled with blood and danger, and the sun only came out the next day, in a jail cell. They assumed for two years, or six in Claire's case, that any relationship between them would be forbidden off the "I" word. But though they'd seen half a dozen years of hardship, including a four year absence from each other, Claire's heart still only endured its bitter life for Peter. She could smack him and claim to hate him all she wanted, but she'd be by his side in a New York minute if he ever needed it. Peter showed the same protective courtesies a few days ago, taking her into his home, and it gave Claire a tiny bit of hope that maybe his old self wasn't so dead and fried after all.

Either way, there was no fighting destiny.

The cosmic universe showed upto help the smaller ship steer its way back to harborsparing Sylar and Claire even more unease in the form of Micah Sanders. The young boy nearly ate the wall across his doorway as he stumbled in haste. When he finally got settled and upright in the kitchen, his brown eyes danced wildly back and forth between Sylar and Claire. But instead of inquiring about their relationship, he had a much more devastating decree to yelp.

"Get in here! The feed's been cut off!"

All post-hookup tension was dissolved, conquered by a much more relevant problem. Sylar ran to Micah's room behind Claire, ducking so he wouldn't hit his head on the doorframe.

"When did this happen?" Sylar immediately shot out, plopping down into his rolling chair once again. Claire stared, dumbfounded. The man was back to business already.

"A-about five minutes ago," Micah stuttered. For the first time, his comrades saw the boy's cockiness drop a few notches. "Sophia Linderman snipped the lines right before Peter entered a room with Candice. There's no possible way to access the cameras anymore, because they're all shut off."

"Candice? Who's Candice?" Claire frowned, sitting down in her previous seat.

"Candice Wilmer," Micah exposited quickly. "I've met her; she's really nasty. She fooled Peter this whole time. Everything he saw was just an illusion, and then Candice took him to see Sophia."

"So…we missed a…lot," Sylar confirmed bluntly.

"Yeah, what were you two doing that took so long? I've been calling for five minutes."

Claire gulped, and looked at the vigilante's brother to save them this time.

Sylar steepled his fingers with a weary exhalation. "What shall we do, then?" he asked breezily, offering a quick subject change.

Micah shook his head anxiously. "There's no way around it. The only thing we can do is wait until Peter gets home."

"But what if he doesn't come back?" Claire blurted out. Her voice cracked. "What if we don't hear from him?!"

Sylar put up a palm, as if the gesture could soothe her hysteria. "Peter will be fine. He's been on hundreds of assignments. I'm sure he'll do admirably, as usual."

But the tremor in his voice and fear in his eyes was what Claire really paid attention to. Three years at the FBI made her an expert at reading people, and right now, Claire read Sylar like a book. He was _scared._ Dead freaking _terrified._

In other words, just as frightened as she.

xxx

Back in Boston, Molly Walker was having fantasies of her own, but of a much more _real _breed. Never mind the fact that they starred her own personal McDreamy.

About a half hour before, when she just started to drift off to candyland, she ordered her power to weave itself into her dreams. It was a talent that she'd discovered rather recently, but a closely kept secret from Mohinder. Her adopted father didn't even like her to _think _about people, let alone find new, inventive ways to access her ability.

But Molly was a sixteen-year old girl with an IQ high enough to join Mensa. Even with the utmost respect she had for the professor, she still had a rebellious streak in her.

Michael Peter Petrelli. He was on her mind a _lot _lately, especially since he saved her from the feds a couple months before. The barcoders went on a sweep and caught her, devastating her poor, paranoid father even more. Peter answered the call laudably, rushing in to break her out as soon as he heard she'd been taken. By the time he arrived, Molly had already been bar-coded, but luckily not sterilized or databased yet.

When they got home, she told him with a blush that he was her hero. After he finished picking a few bullets out of his leg, he finally looked up and shot her a nostalgic smile that she'd never seen prior to then. Peter didn't smile much in the first place (whether it was self-consciousness about his dead bottom lip, or just a heavy heart, she did not know) but this was a particular gem.

It was handsome.

So it was no surprise that Molly, like Claire Bennet before her, developed an undercover hero worship/major crush on him. Unlike the cheerleader, however, Molly could _see _Peter whenever she wanted.

It made her feel stalkerish sometimes, and every once in a while, she wondered if he could _see _when she was watching him. They did share the tracking ability. So, out of caution, whenever Peter looked like he was about to do something seemingly private, Molly immediately averted her all-seeing eyes.

The bizarre thing was, Molly was much more creeped out by nearly catching him brushing his teeth that one time, than, oh, say, having "fun" in bed with a…couple…women (which was a good two years ago, now that she recalled. Peter wasn't quite so wild anymore). She had_ nightmares_ about Peter brushing his teeth, showering, or even wolfing down a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Watching other people eat, or clean themselves had always made her shiver for some reason.

Right now, however, Peter's follies were nothing of embarrassment. Molly's current surroundings blended into those of Peter's as she fell asleep, and she watched everything happen as though invisible.

A pretty brunette woman was talking to Molly's hero, and Peter seemed tense. There also were a couple big guys standing behind the woman, who started towards Peter and grabbed his arms.

"Peter!" Molly gasped, taking a step. But she was like a ghost- unable to been or heard.

"He's coming with me," quipped the woman, and she guided the others out of the hotel room. Molly rushed after, panting and struggling to keep up. Everything seemed so much bigger in the land of dreams. The walls stretched upward like a fortress surrounding her. Molly felt closed in, suffocated, and she barely slipped into the elevator with Peter and Candice in time.

Silence. There wasn't even any ritzy muzak to comfort them.

Molly followed them down, down, several stories, followed them out of the elevator, and followed them some more into a frigid grey room. A redheaded old lady that Candice called _Mrs. Linderman_ told Peter to take a seat, and Molly's gut clenched even tighter, if that was achievable. Was it possible to die of fear? Was it possible to die while sleeping at all?

A firing match of questions shot back and forth between the apparent rivals. Soon, the younger woman departed the room, leaving Mrs. Linderman and Peter alone with cerebral Molly. Peter finally sat down, doing as he was instructed.

Mrs. Linderman appeared to float forward as she outstretched her hand towards Peter's face, wiping away the mask he wore. Molly's eyes already felt wet, and somehow, she knew what was about to become of Peter.

A shadow slithered out from nowhere, pouncing on the brunette man like a cougar. Molly shook her head restlessly. This must have been a dream. This _was _a dream. Shadows couldn't really walk around…could they?

Peter screamed, his calls of suffering echoing off the hollow cell walls. Young Molly Walker shivered in her dreamlike state. He was always so strong, so brave, and to see him crippled in torture like this…

Her train of thought was broken when she spotted Mrs. Linderman preparing to scald Peter again.

Molly leapt in front of the man, shielding him with her body "No! Stop it!" Molly's dream-self ordered the wispy black nothingness. But she was transparent, smoky, just the presence of thought, and ghosts from the mind never saved anyone.

xxx

"They're more than just shadows," Sophia revealed in a lecture-like voice. Peter's heavy panting, just a small sign of his distress, was overlooked. "They're more like…souls, I believe. I know for a fact that my own shadow has quite a temper. Forgive my curiosity, but what can yours do?"

The pain still burned down his chest, but Peter grounded his teeth in a feeble attempt to ignore it. Sophia's shadow had retreated to the front corner for the time being, a thin and catlike shape crouching in the darkness. The woman herself paced the room, never taking her sight off her cringing victim.

"I'm pretty sure it wouldn't _burn_ people," Peter growled, once he could talk. He thought fondly of Petey, his kindhearted shadow. Or, if Sophia's theory was correct, his _soul._

Maybe there was hope for him after all.

Sophia's thin lips turned up in a sly smile. "That _would _make sense. Deep down, you're weak. Too weak and not angry enough to have your soul scald people with its touch.

"I, on the other hand, do express the rancor within. But unfortunately for me, and for the plans of my late husband, my shadow is still_ small_. Hardly useful for any large operations…"

Peter shook, the room's cold air sinking into his warm wounds. Petey was also 'small,' or at least as small as Peter himself. But Sophia's bitchy silhouette seemed to possess the same qualities as Peter's more passive one, too: levitation, transparency at will, ability to become a normal shadow.

The only thing different was that Sophia's could tear the flesh of a god.

"Those schematics," Sophia kneeled in front of him, "are the key to fixing that miniscule problem."

She was being cryptic again, just like Candice, and these half-ass answers were starting to get _old._

"What have you done to me?" Peter barked. His knuckles turned pallid as he grasped the armrests of the harsh, metal chair. "Why can't I use my abilities?"

Sophia continued to smirk. "You of all people should know by now to never take drinks from strangers. Especially pretty women."

The Sprite Candice bought him. God, he should have known.

"The bottom of the glass was laced with Temporary Restraining Serum. Your powers should be dead for at least-," she looked at her golden Rolex,"-another ten hours, I presume. So don't even try to get away, dear. It would only be a waste of energy."

Peter subtly slumped in the chair. The smoldering slash across his torso was enough to keep him down, powers in tact, or not. Then, when Peter remembered that his allies couldn't see him through the cameras anymore either, he came to the dreadful realization that he truly was…

…utterly helpless.

"You're probably wondering why I'm even bothering to speak to you," Sophia said, strutting across the room, "because quite frankly, you're too dangerous to be kept alive, and you've seen something that was very precious to me.

"Yet, there is one tiny grain of information that you harbor, that could make life a _lot _easier for me and my comrades. So if you could just cough it up…I might make your death a little less painful."

Peter frowned, not sure he wanted to proceed with his next query. Sophia spoke for him.

"You see, I'm missing my bargaining chip, so to speak. Without her, Nathan isn't nearly as malleable, which is becoming an issue." Sophia cocked her head, and her appearance turned grim. "So where_ is_ Claire Bennet?"

Peter's face fluctuated through various expressions, before settling on angry confusion. "What do you want with her?"

"The specifics are not important to you," Sophia snapped. "All we need to know is _where she is. _You're the one who kidnapped her, are you not?"

"I didn't kidnap anybody!" Peter protested, standing up from the chair. But as soon as he was upright, Sophia's shadow swooped forward, shoving him back into the seat. Peter moaned, feeling another blunt burn to his chest.

"I…saved…her…" he gasped out, pressing a palm to his warm, newly burnt skin.

"Then you _do _know where she is," Sophia confirmed, tapping her stiletto heel. "Peter. We both know that things would be a lot easier if you simply told me where she was. It would save you so much pain."

Peter said nothing; he merely glared with raw loathing at his vixen captor.

Sophia sighed. "Fine then, love. You've forced me to be harsh about this."

Before he could even blink, Peter already felt a fresh gash across his gut due to that increasingly infuriating shadow. He groaned, his head falling back against the top of the chair, and all he wished for was for the throbbing pain to stop. For Claire to arrive and sew him back up, good as new, and unblemished.

But he knew that even with her regenerative powers, these scars would still remain. Sophia's "power," as it was, had stuck around once. No doubt that his upper half was now appallingly tarnished for life.

"I'll repeat that inquiry," Sophia said patiently, as if she was disciplining a small child. "Where is Claire Bennet?"

"I'm not telling you," Peter hissed in a deadly whisper. "Never."

He closed his eyes and awaited another strike.

xxx

Mohinder wasn't quite sure when or how it had happened. One day he was a perfectly normal sleeper, and the next, he was up at three AM sipping a small cup of peppermint chai. As well as the night after that. And the night after _that, _and many more nights until it eventually became an unbreakable habit. Go to bed at eleven. Wake up at two. Drink something warm. Try to get some rest, and always fail. Start the day at four.

Molly called him an insomniac, insisting that he go see a doctor, to which the Indian man snappily replied that he was _fine, thank you. _Besides, every other doctor in any field knew _all _about Dr. Loony Suresh. He was certain that everyone in the doctor's office would make wolf-like howling noises as soon as he walked in.

At any rate, Mohinder didn't even want drugs because deep down, hell, on the _surface, _he wanted Molly to be out of his radius as little as possible. He knew he was a heavy sleeper when heactually _got _winks, so if someone came to harm Molly again…

He shivered and took a sip of chai, which immediately warmed his veins like chicken soup for the soul. Mohinder had long sense gotten over the irony of his paranoia. The man that sparked this whole fear, the man who killed Molly's parents in the first place, was none other than his best friend Sylar.

"No! Stop it!" screamed a voice from upstairs that cracked the silence.

Mohinder set down his teacup so fast, the china nearly broke.

"Molly?" he hollered anxiously. It was a fact that Molly was prone to nightmares, but a father's soul could never been soothed by habit.

"Please don't hurt him! Please!"

"Molly!"

Mohinder tightened his robe and clambered up the stairs, practically throwing himself into Molly's room when he arrived. The teenager twitched in her sleep, covering her closed eyes.

"Please! Please stop hurting him!"

"Molly," Mohinder murmured more gently. He rushed over to her bed and cradled her sleeping form in his arms. "Shhh…shh…wake up…what's wrong?"

Molly tossed and turned in his embrace. "No!" she cried, tears streaming down her face. "Don't do it! Stop! Stop!"

Mohinder lightly shook the still-sleeping girl. "Wake up, Molly! It's only a dream."

But Molly stayed asleep, trapped inside her own head and ability. Mohinder grew frantic, prying her hands away from her face. The child's eyes were still shut, salty streaks pouring out from under the lids. Sweat glistened all across her face, and the whole room felt stuffy and hot.

Molly shrieked a strangled bit of gibberish that sounded sort of like a name, before falling into racking, hiccupy sobs. All while still slumbering.

Mohinder tightened his hug, soothingly stroking his adopted daughter's hair. As a single father, he was forced to take on the roles of both parents. Tonight called for the "Mom" hat to be put on.

"Shh, shh…everything's fine…" Mohinder cooed, even though he really had no clue. In his six years of caring for Molly, the girl always woke up from her dreams. But this time, his sweetnothings were of no value to the girl. Rather than being calmed down, or woken up, Molly's fit only grew in fervor.

All Mohinder could do was shudder and hold her more tightly.

xxx

Sophia's shadow slashed two or three times across his chest, shredding the remainder of his blood stained dress shirt. Peter had lost count as to how many oblique burns he had marring his chest and back by now. A half-dozen? A full dozen? Who knew? All he could feel were his nerve cells silently screaming as they got engulfed in a stinging fire.

"Tell me where she is!"

_Crack. Slash. _

This had been going on for a good seven minutes now. Sophia would ask about Claire's whereabouts, and Peter would spit out something that she didn't want to hear.

"No," Peter choked, cupping his hand under his latest bleeding wound. The chapped palm was scarlet within instants.

"Where IS she?!"

_Whip. _

Peter yelped and tightly shut his eyes. She'd burned him right across his pectorals that time, nastily singeing a sensitive nipple.

"Dammit," Sophia muttered, smacking the desk in frustration. Peter would have jumped if he hadn't been so consumed with despair. He was past faintness and gagging; he was close to true demise now and for the first time in his life, he just wanted it to be _over_. For Sophia to burn a whole right through his brain and put him out of his misery.

Peter sat, no _lay_ in the ridiculously hard chair. His eyes were covered in a layer of smog and his hearing was clogged and muffled, like he'd just had an orgasm. Strange that. He always assumed it was a freak of his own being that caused the side-effect.

The thought made him chuckle in his mind. Physically doing so would surely have broken him.

But most noticeable were the _scars. _Forget the small mark on his cheek; bloody, crimson, speckled burns criss-crossed his entire torso now. He resisted the urge to simply collapse onto the floor and die, not on account of vanity, but off the excruciatingly sore wounds.

Sophia ignored his sniffs and strangled groans as she rummaged through the desk's main drawer. After a few moments searching, her face brightened. The next thing Peter saw, even if it was through his blurry vision, was the inside of a gun barrel.

"You said you don't use guns because it's a terribly painful way to die." It wasn't a question.

"Well, love, I've heard the same. And I'm not nearly as nice as you," Sophia whispered, moving the pistol down, directly at his scar crossed heart. Peter held whatever breath he could gather, and unconsciously chewed his bottom lip in part acceptance, part terror. His body froze in fear, for he knew that no matter which way he ducked, Sophia would get him by some method. Whether it be by bullet or shadow, she'd have him dead if it was the last thing she did.

Attempts never hurt anyone, though, and Peter bolted out of his chair pretty fast for a mortal man. Every skin and muscle cell in his body howled in shock, and Peter could hardly stand straight up without wailing.

The torture was his undoing. Right as he went to keel over, clutching his stomach, Sophia sneered and abruptly pulled the trigger, shattering the tension with a burst of hellfire.

The hot metal shards blew out of the revolver in slow motion, but Peter felt the pain before the bullets even slammed into his chest. Claire's healing powers had done a good job of dulling the aches of war in the past, but he had no such sanctuary today. He felt the heat, the searing rip of his flesh and corruption of body tissue like every other person on the planet would.

He'd been right by his oath not to use guns. It hurt like getting split in half.

Darkness flashed in front of him, and he sensed his breath and soul slowly slip out away through his navel. Peter was leaving a part of himself in thin air, even as he fell gracefully backwards in slow plummet. It felt as though a string held his core in place, while the rest of his body slid away, like a snake shedding its skin.

Before the floor greeted his back and skull with a cracking _thud, _Claire's sad smile flashed in his mind, just like every time he fell. Except this time, she couldn't save him. He was absolutely alone, and his only friends were left in mystery as to what was happening to him. Nobody would know…nobody would care…

For a man that wanted to be a hero, Peter sure didn't leave much of a legacy. An empty Jack Daniels bottle in the sink back in Boston was about the closest thing to a relic he had to his name.

As of that moment, Sophia Linderman finally achieved what no one else had: she stopped Peter Petrelli's heart irrevocably before he even hit the ground. On a normal day, she would have gone to her suite and ordered a fruity specialty drink out of self-appreciation. But on a normal day, it would have been a normal assassin or spy, a _normal _fiend. Never had she come across such luck to slay a black caped watchman and rid the Earth of his pestilence.

This called for something more exquisite. A good, aged, wine. No silly business when it came to healing the world.

Still, unbeknownst to the conniving elder woman, nor anyone, one particular thing in the grand scheme was underrated and overlooked.

On the other side of the country, Molly Walker finally awoke in screams.

xxx


	15. St Peter

Oh GOD, I'm so sorry for the delay in this. But I got caught up in real life and so stuck in the middle scene and I'm still not totally happy with it, but it's as good as I can do right now, quite honestly. So please push through my little mid-fic slump, because there's a light at the end of the tunnel, I promise, hehe. Next chapter should have Paire (finally!) and the spirited intrigue that I think this story used to have. Thanks for reading and reviewing )

**Also, after this chapter, this story will be upgraded to the M level. I feel it's kind of thematic for a PG13 story, and just wanted to warn you so you know to search for it under that rating from now on.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

"**St. Peter"**

Niki's head throbbed like never before, scaring away any twinkle of sleep she hoped to obtain.A sharp buzzing had been assaulting her poor ears for a good hour now, and the Tylenols she'd downed did nothing to relieve her distress. The woman wasn't prone to migraines, except on the occasionally bad 'monthly,' but this one in particular came about off an electronic shriek from nowhere.

Human ears are a funny thing. They're scientifically proven to pick up unusual frequencies at random intervals of time. However, the noise that plagued Niki was much more pronounced, unavoidable, and probably not a natural phenomenon. She just hoped that she wasn't manifesting some God-awful ability to control radio waves with her mind or something. One power was _enough, _thank you.

A shrill ring from the bedside table startled her before shooting even more pins and needles into her temples. Niki whimpered and grabbed the pillow beside her, off the side where DL used to sleep, and smothered her face with it. The phone's blare was only mildly muffled though, and after four rings, Niki cried Uncle.

Her slender hand reached out and clumsily ripped the wireless out of its cradle. As soon as her thumb pressed down on the "talk" button, she heard a frantic British voice stuttering on the other side of the country.

"_Hello? Hello? Niki?"_

Niki groaned and pressed the phone to her ear. "Who is it?"

"_Mohinder Suresh, in Boston. I apologize for the late hour, but it's quite urgent."_

That snagged her attention. The blonde sat up, tiredly rubbing her face. "Huh? What? What's goin' on?"

"_Can you tell me where Peter Petrelli is?"_

xxx

"Goddammit, Micah!"

The teenager heard Niki's furious yells even before his mother stormed into his room. Sylar and Claire instinctively shied back away from the culpable Sanders boy like he reeked of guilt, knowing full well that accomplices never got much of a break. Micah grappled to minimize all things related to espionage on his PC before Niki actually entered, but the horse was already turned to glue by now. It was all a matter of packaging.

"Hi, Mom," Micah said, feigning innocence as he spun to face Niki when she finally made her way in. "What's up?"

Yet the glower of a woman scorned was not erased by her son's forced casualness, and the whole room knew the jig was up. Sylar could have sworn he saw Micah gulp.

"What are you doing in here?" Niki snapped, taking in an eyeful of the computer screen. "What was Peter doing downtown?"

Micah's confidence plummeted to a new low when he spotted the phone held in his mother's clutch, matched with her accusatory firestorm of questions. His companions exchanged looks, and before Micah could rebuke with faux ignorance, Claire abruptly stood up.

"What do you mean by what he _was _doing?" Claire asked anxiously. "What's he doing _now_?"

Niki hesitated before quietly responding, "Mohinder's on the phone. He told me that Peter was killed, just a few minutes ago."

The room felt like a vacuum: no air and painfully cold. Peter's partners in crime found the sudden chills in their spines wholly unexplainable. _Peter? Dead? _Why was that so terrifying? He was an immortal. Death was only temporary…

…wasn't it?

"Can I talk to him?" Sylar inquired, gesturing to the phone.

"Sure." Niki held it out to him, and Sylar could hear Mohinder's hysterical tones even with the earpiece a few feet away.

"Hello? Mohinder?"

"_Is that you, Sylar?_

"Yes. What's happened? How do you know about the mission?"

Sylar listened attentively as Mohinder briskly expounded his knowledge. Apparently, Molly saw the whole thing through her power. Most of what happened was kept quiet beneath Molly's tightly sealed lips, but she did manage to tell Mohinder that Peter had been shot, killed, by a woman named Mrs. Linderman.

"_And then Molly woke up, screaming. She begged me to call you. I tried to convince her that it was only a dream, but now I'm filled with the dread that she might be on to something."_

"Peter went out to steal some paperwork from Linderman," Sylar explained with strained calmness. "We lost contact with him right before he went to meet her."

"_My God," _Mohinder whispered._ "You need to find him, then. I'll ask Molly about his whereabouts, and then I'll call Hiro. He'll get there faster than any of you." _

Sylar swallowed and nodded. "Thank you. We'll be waiting."

"_Be careful, my friend."_

The phone slowly slipped out of Sylar's shaking hand and onto the floor. He took a moment to gather himself before announcing to the waiting audience, "Hiro's on his way. He'll bring back…Peter."

Or Peter's _body. _

"He'll be fine," Claire assured him tightly. "Peter dies all the time, right?"

"Yes, but he doesn't usually stay dead," Sylar replied. "I hope he was shot in the head. I could stand getting my hands dirty to bring him back. I just don't want to see him truly…expired."

He left the meaning of _truly expired _to dwell in the minds of his comrades.

This mysterious episode vaguely reminded him of what Peter fondly called "The San Diego Incident." It was Peter's first on-the-job death that was nearly fatal for _real_. If it hadn't been for Sylar's quick thinking in pulling the bullet out of his skull, Peter probably would have been buried alive.

Sylar'd be damned if such a fate met his dear brother this time.

xxx

Peter Petrelli was a fine-looking man to start with, but Sophia found his mangled corpse an even prettier sight. The older woman kneeled down next to him, careful to avoid the pool of blood that was quickly soaking the floor, and she took a long eyeful of his wounds. There was absolutely no response. No coughing up of the bullets, no natural ejecting of foreign objects. Just a dead-as-a-doornail young man, spread eagled out on the floor.

Sophia smiled. And on closer inspection to Petrelli's face, she saw that he may have not been as handsome as she first presumed. Peter's lower lip, parted from the other in an "O" of shock, dipped in the middle as though it had once been sliced and didn't heal properly. His features were too close together as well, so Linderman had no doubt that Peter was one of those people who could touch his tongue to his nose. The black crew cut that encircled his crown highlighted his ears too, a pair that stuck out from the sides of his head, though not quite cartoonishly enough to be mockable. From afar, these were all barely noticeable imperfections, but a closer examination shimmed them into focus for Sophia.

She sighed in mock sympathy, scratching a red fingernail down one of Peter's equally as crimson burns. Sophia Linderman had marred indestructible flesh, killed an immortal without even touching him.

Sophia Linderman had slain a god.

The redhead nimbly slipped her cell phone out of her pocket. The guards were on speed dial, naturally, and by the time she flipped to her oleander cell wallpaper and pressed "3," they were probably already on their way.

"Mrs.Linderman." Boris Zokonwye, the tall, black, head of security stood firm in the doorway about a minute later. His voice showed no infliction that suggested a hesitation to obey.

"Boris," Sophia replied affably. She gestured to the bloody body on the floor, splayed like the Vetruvian Man. "Dispose of him."

There was just as much demand in her tone as there was apathy in Zokonwye's.

Boris wiped off the remaining rags of shirt fabric from Peter's chest before tossing the corpse over his shoulder most unceremoniously. Peter's limbs hung limp like hot rubber, and had he still been aware of his surroundings, he would have been utterly humiliated.

Two other guards joined Boris when he entered the white tiled corridor outside the office. However, the tall African man needed no assistance from said measly guards. He had muscles like lead watermelons, rumored to be capable of throwing men into walls with hardly a breath.

So the two others meekly flanked him, providing armed coverage for the off chance of a threat.

Sophia's thumb absently brushed back and forth over her platinum wedding ring as she watched the guards take Petrelli away. Sure, dear Daniel left her an empire of hotels and an irreplaceable art gallery, but this shining metal band was still Sophia's most valued possession.

Any colleague would brand Sophia a black-hearted wench ever since Daniel Linderman died. Six years before, their opinions of her would have been most assuredly lighter. The woman had been merry, a devoted patron of the arts, a dab hand in the kitchen…oh how she loved to cook, but even more so, how she loved to eat anything Daniel pulled out of the oven. The final thing he'd made her was a delicious chicken pot pie, actually, three days before he left for the last plane to New York. It was the last time she'd ever see him.

"A perfect treat for my perfect lady," Linderman, always the clichéd charmer, beamed.

Sophia's lips slyly turned upward. "Me? Perfect? Now what makes you say that?"

Daniel slipped an arm elegantly around her waist and rubbed his white, Velcro-like beard with the other hand. "Ah, my dear…we all have our own tastes. You prefer pot pies without the cream sauce, while I cannot live without it. True?"

Sophia tutted good naturedly and nodded.

"Your lack of love for a good pot pie notwithstanding, you're still a match made in heaven for _me_." His smile was sweet and genuine, and it still remained on his face when he lightly kissed her goodnight.

But on Election Day 2006, the Grim Reaper came by and stained her soul to match her shadow for good. D.L. Hawkins, a terribly painful death for Daniel Linderman, and an era of heartbreak later, Sophia's catlike soul was unwilling and ruthless. Her husband was right; they were perfectly matched, polar, and always able to keep one another in check. Sophia had always been a harsh realist as opposed to Daniel's head-in-the-clouds way of doing things. Their interests were on the same thread, but their personalities often quarreled like Poseidon and Athena.

Though, in hindsight, the clash of the titans is what kept Sophia level headed all those years. Now that Daniel was gone, she could do whatever she wanted, and take the path _she _chose. It was a bitter freedom, and though Sophia basked in it, the road less taken was still lonely without dear Daniel by her side.

"Mrs. Linderman?"

Sophia frowned and looked over her shoulder. "Candice?"

The curvy bouncer responded with a formal nod, almost a bow. "Do you still want me to protect the schematics for you?"

The matriarch rubbed her temples jadedly. "No. I do believe I'll keep on myself at all times. Paranoia and all."

"Understandable," Candice agreed, perky but mechanic all the same. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"A 1983 Bordeaux. That was a good year," Sophia instructed. She knew asking a clueless girl to go fetch her some wine would result in tardinessbut Sophia failed to care much at all. The longer the desire, the sweeter the flavor.

Maybe that's why the murder of Peter Petrelli had such an odd aftertaste.

xxx

Within minutes, Niki's small, three bed-roomed house was flooded with even more on-the-whim visitors. Any more and she'd have to conjure up an addition to the ranch just to fit everyone in.

Hiro teleported straight into Micah's bedroom with a barely noticeable _pop_, an impromptu pair on his arms: Molly and Mohinder.

Mohinder's eyes were wildly alert, and Sylar, knowing his friend too well, had a feeling that insomnia and several cups of caffeinated chai were to blame. Only a man like Mohinder could be this awake and fast-paced at three AM EasternTime.

Molly was equally was conscious, but drained lines on her face and shining tear streaks on those pink cheeks revealed a tired little girl underneath the pandemonium. Micah's features illuminated when he caught sight of the girl, but his light dimmed when he saw Molly shiver.

Micah, never a boy to give up that easily, grabbed a small blanket from his bed, crossed the room, and wrapped it around her.

"Hey," she said, finally taking notice of him and pulling her buddy into a hug.

"Ditto," Micah smiled. His happy expression fell serious. "They told me about what happened. Do you want to lie down?"

Molly nodded appreciatively. "Yeah, that would be good," she admitted bashfully. "Thanks."

She stood on her tiptoe and pressed a relaxed kiss to his cheek. Micah's dark skin flushed, and he slid a comforting arm around her trembling frame as he led her to his futon.

While young love was being ignited, another friendship reunited itself on the other side of the room.

"Sylar," Mohinder breathed, immediately embracing his friend.

Sylar squeezed the Indian man back, then slid away to look Mohinder in the eyes. "I didn't think I'd be seeing you tonight."

"I figured it best," Mohinder said. "We can all be in the same place." He then looked apologetically at Niki. "I'm sorry for all this fuss. I hope you don't mind us taking up your house, Niki."

Miss Sanders shook her benignly shook her head. "I don't mind, but I can't promise you won't be sleeping on the floor."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Mohinder quickly explained. "Hiro, Molly and I will be leaving shortly. As soon as we get Peter back safely, we'll go home to Boston."

_If it's not too late, _Sylar thought miserably. As much as he wanted to be positive, he could muster no such hope. A part of him felt detached and severed, as though a piece of his heart was cut out. The young man harbored a paranoid intuition when it came to Peter, perhaps out of their bond as blood brothers, and so far, that paranoia had yet to be wrong. He _knew _when Peter was hurt, or suffering. He _knew _when there was a way out, or a way to help his kin, to save his empathetic sibling from certain death.

But unfortunately at this point, Sylar's gut instinct told him that a few minutes before, he suddenly became an only child.

Molly and Micah chatted quietly in the back corner of the boy's room. "Are you hungry?" Micah wholeheartedly offered. Molly resisted the urge to fall into his arms, giggling at how hard he was trying. "I'm sure I can find Easy-Mac or _something_ in our pantry."

Molly grinned. "I'm okay. I'm not really hungry after…"

Micah internally winced. _Of course she's not hungry; she just had one of the scariest experiences of her life, and now she's been thrown on the other side of the country. Idiot._

Before Micah was forced to reply with a weak excuse, the samurai in black came over and saved his hide.

"Micah," Hiro said formally. "I need to know where Peter was."

"The Montecito," the boy told Hiro automatically.

"Do you remember the level?"

Micah hesitated, and stroked his smooth chin. There were a few flecks of a boyhood beard forming on his jaw line, enough to feel, but not nearly enough to pull out a razor for. Micah didn't mind. He sort of dreaded shaving. DL never got the chance to teach him, and asking his _mom _to show him the ropes was sure to be a disaster.

Plus, Micah was on house arrest. It's not like he had anyone to impress.

"He was on the twenty-third level," Molly interjected.

"Are you sure?" Hiro asked.

Molly nodded hesitantly. "Pretty sure. But he might have been moved. I could exactly where he is _right now_ for you."

"Molly," Micah kindly chided, covering her hand with his. "Haven't you had enough to deal with tonight?"

"I want to help Peter," Molly retorted with an ache of longing in her voice. "I'm one of the only people who can."

"Preserve your energy," Hiro suggested from beside them. The warrior had been somewhat forgotten in the conversation between the young metahumans, but he was determined to make a point this time.

"I will search the Montecito for Peter, and if I need a day to do so, I will take it. I can stop time if I must."

Molly seemed disgruntled, but still didn't protest under Hiro and Micah's somber gazes.

"Then so be it," Hiro stated bluntly. "I will return as soon as I can."

There was not a minute to waste, even for a time lord. The next time Micah and Molly looked over at the spot where Hiro stood moments before, he was already gone.

xxx

Hiro absorbed his surroundings as soon as his feet hit the ground. This habit remained a common thread among all the great soldiers of history, whether Mountie or shogun. _'If near, appear far. If far, appear near.' _

Hiro's avid worship of _The Art of War _came in handy nearly every assignment too.

The Japanese man was now thirty miles away from the Sanders' abode. Compared to some of the places he'd been in the last six years, Hiro found this to be eerily nearby to 'base.' The fact that he was in the same _timeline_ already made it close, considering that Hiro was addicted to time jumping. But nowadays, he purely looked, never touched. "The Butterfly Effect" had been grounded into his head the hard way.

'_Force is the control of the balance of power, in accordance with advantages.'_

And so, in the here and now, in the setting of which he'd instantly sucked in, Hiro headed left. The elevator was within a short walking distance, and Hiro studied his reflection in the fancy, mirrored doors. He wasn't one for vanity, but a small part of him, the very small part in him that still squealed "Yatta!" whenever he did something amazing was beaming right now. Here before him stared a soul patch, a black ponytail, a futuristic samurai uniform, and an authentic feudal sword to boot. It was a hard life but a dream come true all the same.

Hiro pressed the "up" arrow. What a pain it was that out of all the abilities he had, he still couldn't press the fast-forward button on life and time. If Hiro was more impatient he could have teleported to ten seconds or so into the future, but even a simple jump like that could drain his energy terribly.

The soldier automatically reached a hand behind his back and grasped the hilt of Takezo Kensei's katana as he watched the elevator's doors slide open. But there was no cause for alarm: simply a stoned, zombieish looking janitor with a smelly cart full of unclean clothes.

Hiro bowed slightly towards the custodian and stepped into the elevator. It wasn't a common occurrence to catch Hiro Nakamura in a mode of transportation. He usually just teleported, unless it was a situation like this, where he had no honest idea where to teleport to in the first place.

The grimy janitor didn't even seem to notice that a lithe Japanese guy with a sword stood next to him. Then again, it was Vegas. There were dudes walking around in weird costumes left and right like it was Halloween every day.

Hiro silently pushed "U" and held his hands together in front of him.

The lift went down, down, and down some more, briefly stopping on level four to let the janitor off before Hiro's journey to the underbelly of the Montecito was completed. He got to "U," for underground, which was beneath the lobby and pool levels, and the bland simplicity and the dirty walls that greeted him when he stepped out of the elevator merely confirmed this.

Hiro headed down the main freeway, but halted upon sight of three warped shadows sliding along the opposite wall. The mutant slipped back into a dark corner and crouched low, watching more closely as the figures came into view.

There were three guards, three opponents for Hiro to take on. That wasn't so bad. If Kensei could defeat ninety Ronin, then Hiro, a Battojutsumaster who trained in Tohoku, could most assuredly take on three bubbling goons. However, when the Japanese man peered closer, this trio of rivalry didn't have the aura of the average henchmen. These were much smarter, more _elite. _Sophia Linderman's best.

The one on the far right was clearly an American and a veteran, his grey hair in a military-standard buzz cut. He carried a large gun, which actually made Hiro feel more secure. Men with large weapons depended on said artillery, and if Hiro could separate the man from the machine, he'd already have one enemy out of the running.

The slender man on the left would be harder. His black hair was slicked with grease, and he held a basic pistol, along with a few smaller arms on his belt. Nakamura's inquisitive gaze took this man to be a patron of the arts. _Martial _arts. This mysterious warrior's body was his greatest defense, so Hiro already began to work out a plan on how to take him down.

It was the giant hulk of a man in the center who concerned the samurai the most. Boris Zokonwye was easily a foot and a half taller than Hiro's short frame. On top of the size alone, Hiro would have to be extra careful in his attack, for slung across Zokonwye's broad shoulder was Peter's mangled body.

Hiro pursed his lips together, shaking his head on sight of his bloodied-up ally. As much as he longed to chop up these guards and their dark mistress in the most painful way he knew how, he suppressed that rancor._ 'The general may not do battle out of wrath_.' Anger made one reckless, but if channeled properly, it could be the ultimate weapon.

The Tokyo native took a deep breath and pulled his sword out of its casing. None of the guards noticed the noise of metal sliding against metal, luckily.

He rounded the corner, his feet softly padding across the linoleum without making a sound. Zokonwye, the army guy, and the thin man were about thirty feet up ahead, their backs turned as they headed towards the exit, Peter in tow.

Hiro tiptoed behind them, waiting for the _perfect moment _to attack. Too soon and they'd be cramped in the confines of the small hallway. Too late and…Hiro'd rather not think about that.

He stalked Zokonwye and company all the way throughout a labyrinth of halls, until his journey took him outside. The four men and a dead guy were in the backlots of the hotel now, right in the middle of the "employees only" parking garage. Ugly concrete columns and thick gasoline spills all across the pavement proved that no matter how beautiful a building seemed on the outside, there was always a dirty basement.

The same applied to their government.

A paved ramp that led to the open air sloped upward about a hundred feet in front of them. A city of dumpsters had been erected in the Montecito's urban backyard. As soon as Hiro caught sight of those brown steel bins where Zokonwye was clearly headed, he knew The Time to Attack was _now_.

A splash, too loud to miss, sounded behind Linderman's three soldiers. Zokonwye turned first, and Peter's corpse on his shoulder lolled lopsidedly at the new angle. But though a large puddle of gasoline about ten feet back shivered with vibrations, and the smell of oil had been aroused from its hiding place, there was no one to be seen.

"Nothing but a rodent," Zokonwye gruffly mused. "Come."

Though he took a step forward, his deep eyes did not tear away from the still-trembling puddle. Something was not right, and the sudden sharp jab in his gut only confirmed it.

Zokonwye turned forward and looked down to see the tip of a katana digging into his stomach. His gaze traveled up the sword's steel blade, to its leather hilt, and all the way up the body of the stout Asian man _holding _on to the sword. His attacker was smiling.

"Hi there," Hiro said amicably, and thus the battle began.

The ex-military goon immediately sprung into action, pumping his finger on his machine gun's trigger before Hiro could even react. He roared out with a sadistic fervor, body rocking with the weapon's steel force. It was only when he was nearly out of bullets that he realized the small ninja was not injured. Hiro merely kept on smiling and eventually nodded down at his opponent's hands.

His opponent's _empty _hands.

The machine gun had been scattered across the outdoor lot for a good ten seconds now, bits of metal here and there. One moment it was in the general's arms, and the next, it was shrapnel.

Hiro could have slashed them all from behind and be done with it. It would have been easier that way, really, but against his code of honor all the same. Only a cheat would attack like that, and though Hiro often had blood on his hands, he was proud to be a warrior, not a scoundrel.

Besides, this was much more fun.

The samurai took advantage of the distraction and started a catalytic fire in the battle's oven. He took a step back, removing Kensei's sword from Zokonwye's gut. And before the others could see it coming, he was airborne, using the sword like a pole vault. Hiro slammed the tip of it into the rough concrete and let his feet naturally swing up, his boot covered heels delivering a harsh kick to the grey haired man's face. The thug spun on a heel and fell face first into the concrete, knocked out cold. It wasn't exactly a traditional move, but it worked.

One down, two to go.

Zokonwye wasn't gonna stick around for _this _bullshit. He had a job to do- throw Petrelli and a nicely lit match into the dumpster. Sophia Linderman's objectives always came first.

Elijah could take care of the karate kid.

A sharp side blow to Hiro's temple made him see stars. The small framed man tumbled to the floor, his sword flying across the pavement. Hiro groaned and grabbed his throbbing forehead as his black haired attacker, Elijah, looked on from behind in satisfaction.

But Hiro wasn't going to bite the bullet that easily. With a quick stop of time, Kensei's weapon was in his hand again, and he was back on his feet. Elijah frowned, taken off guard, but he recovered well. His limbs were nearly invisible with their rapid speeds as the tall, wiry man dodged all of Hiro's attacks.

There were bigger problems as stake, however. Over Elijah's shoulder, Hiro spotted Boris Zokonwye, with Peter's body dangling off his shoulder, running full speed ahead for the dumpsters. _This fight is a distraction, _Hiro realized, mentally slapping his forehead.

The battle with Elijah was forgotten as Hiro sprinted towards the parking lot. He heard the footsteps of his opponent behind him, yet all of those outside noises got blocked out as he made himself picture his failure. For some warriors, the image of a worst case scenerio was the one they couldn't bare to see. But Hiro felt it empowered and motivated him to not let that vision become a reality. His first trip to the future back in November of 2006, enstilled that tradition in his mind. It had stuck ever since.

What _would _happen if he failed? Sophia Linderman, would get away with whatever she was doing (the specifics Hiro hadn't been briefed on. Only her name and image). Peter would be dead for good, because once his body was gone, was there ensuring that the could come back? Hiro would probably be taken in and killed. Sophia and her crowd would find a way back to the Sanders' and attack the underground resistance, and all the protectors of the alliance would be dead. In short, mutant mankind would not stand a chance anymore if Hiro failed to rescue Peter Petrelli from the makeshift creamation bin.

No pressure or anything.

Just as Hiro reached the columned divide between the garage and the nightrise, a flash of black swooped in front of Hiro's path. "Not so fast," Elijah winked, blocking the way between Hiro and Zokonwye. He held his hands up, ready to fight, but he might as well have been blocking Hiro from saving the world. Hiro gave the man a shot for mercy, and it had gone to waste. The time for piddiling around was over.

Before Elijah's reflexes went into action, Hiro's blade cut through the air towards Linderman's guard's neck. The metal hit the mark. Even a master at hand-to-hand combat was no match for a quick slice to the jugular, and Elijah barely managed to clutch his throat before he fell over, stone cold dead.

Though, as Hiro watched his second victim of the night plummet limply to the ground, a flower of crimson already blooming beneath the body, he contemplated whether this was really necessary. It would be perfectly acceptable to stop time, grab Peter's body, and teleport back without anymore blood being spilt. After all, these were only gofers. Linderman herself was the woman to get _real _revenge on.

But any thoughts of mercy were banished after, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Boris carelessly throw Peter's body aside. A nearby spectator could have seen Hiro's eyes narrow as he watched his friend skid across the concrete, the poor boy's corpse getting caked in gravel on top of everything else.

Oh no. There would be no clemency. This bastard was going _down._

Hiro let out a howl of strength as he ran towards the large man, swinging his weapon and just barely missing Boris's skin. Zokonwye chuckled nastily, reaching a large hand forward and picking up Hiro by the lapels. He ignored Hiro's clumsily placed slices to his shoulder and, with the gargantuan muscles he was famous for, he tossed the young man across the lot without batting an eye.

Hiro felt his bottom lip get cut open on impact, yet there was no time to dwell in the pain. He had enough to cope with when every bone in his body vibrated with the force of his landing. His forehead was torn up from the gravel, and sharp bits and pieces of rock dug into his limbs.

His bones ached and his skin burned, and his uniform was dirtied with blood and dust, but Hiro Nakamura, Battojutsu master and defender of the underground alliance, continued to fight. It didn't matter whether this would drain the last fragile drops of his life force, or if it would require three days of bedrest. Hiro was not going to fall tonight, even if it meant a fight to the death.

Thus the dueling pair fought like wild predators, kicking and ducking and hacking and screaming until their lungs burned out. Hiro's teeth were gritted and bared as he attacked with the fiercest vigor that he'd ever harbored. This wasn't just for liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It was personal.

The greatest lecturers would have found Hiro's methods foolish. A warrior was supposed to be emotionless with no attachments. Jedi-like. To take a battle to heart was a death sentence and caused a recklessness that was utterly uncalled for.

So Hiro played the game of checks and balances. He wouldn't use his power anymore in this battle. Hiro never liked to teleport or stop time in a scuffle in the first place, because he liked to give his rivals a fair fight. his haughtiness changed history in 1671 Japan. Modesty was the way to go.

Boris Zokonwye, on the other hand, didn't believe in anything other than "Kill and ask questions later." What was this little guy with a metal toothpick trying to proove?

He chortled grimly and clutched Hiro by the collar again, preparing to spinning the samurai around like a shotput before tossing him into a wall. It wasn't the most efficent way to kill someone, but it sure was fun.

Though, unbenownst to Boriz, Hiro Nakamura learned quickly. Just as Zokonwye lifted his arm, with Hiro dangling from it, Hiro awkwardly lunged forward, katana outstretched, Zokonwye had left his entire torso as fair game. Pride created armor easily pierced., and nothing proved it more then when Hiro's sword suddenly flung into Zokonwye's ribcage.

_Swoosh. _

Boris gasped, his throat contracting in shock. His hands instinctively grabbed the sword now sticking out of his chest, and the sharp sides of the blade cut into his fingers. There was no real pain off the weapon impaling his heart…only the smallest flicker of surprise before everything faded to black.

The last thing he saw was Hiro Nakamura's stoic expression.

Hiro shook the lifeless body off of his sword, an action accompanied by the sickening sound of metal sliding through flesh. Zokonwye fell to the ground, his heavy cadaver creating a loud _thud _against the concrete.

The sword was soon wiped clean with the ebony slash on his belt before Hiro stepped over the bodies of his challengers, to get to Peter. He kneeled, sighing. _And this is just another day at work for us. _

His hand traced the scars on his friend's chest before dipping into the wounds and removing the bullets. The slugs were coated with blood, adding to the slick redness that already covered Hiro's glove.

He looked down upon Peter in anticipation, waiting, any minute now, for his most dependable comrade to rise from the dead. Just like always.

Five seconds. Probably the internal wounds healing up. Nothing to worry about.

Ten seconds. Hiro frowned and took a closer look at the bullet wounds. Shouldn't they have healed by now? Or did Peter have to come around _before _the wounds could heal? Hiro couldn't remember the specifics of a revival. He'd always just sat back and waited for Peter to cough up some blood and be okay again.

Twenty seconds and Hiro's heart was racing, his face warming with hot, panicked blood. He grasped the corpse by the shoulders and shook it.

"Peter! Peter!"

Yet Peter still rested in the crib of death. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, a minute, an hour, all the time in the _world, _even, could not call back this young man's soul.

Hiro released his grip, letting Peter fall softly to the ground again. His face, which had been on fire with anxiety only seconds before, was now cold with dread. Peter could _not _be dead. This just…the wasn't possible. This couldn't _be. _Hiro was downright floored and flabbergasted, and for a man with all the fortune cookie answers, he was awfully speechless.

"Wha have they done to you, old friend?" He bowed his head forlornly, placing a miserable palm against Peter's chest. There was no heartbeat or breath under Hiro's hand, a cruel reminder of reality.

This was no place to leave his friend. If Hiro could manage to get Peter to the Sanders', their tribe of mutants could at least give the poor boy a proper burial. Hiro internally flinched at all of the bustle that he would bring into the house with Peter's body. Mohinder, wanting to study the body and find out why Peter's healing powers didn't work. Molly and Micah, children who should never have to see such a thing, and who would most likely cry together in the corner. Sylar, Peter's blood brother and unconditional companion who Hiro envisioned collapsing to the ground in horror at the news. Claire, the girl that Peter always spoke the world of in his years of vigilantism.

Hiro didn't want to consider her reaction. The thought of the young woman clutching at Peter's dead body in racking sobs was unfathomably heartbreaking.

But this life, this torture in such a brave new world, was full of terror on the hour. Hiro, Peter, Sylar, and the rest of their motley crew were the lucky ones. It was only a matter of time before the tables were turned and a misfortunate unlike any other rocked their world.

"_Those angry will be happy again, and those wrathful will be cheerful again_," Hiro softly quoted, "_but a destroyed nation cannot exist again, and the dead cannot be brought back to life_."

His shoulders slumped. Sun Tzu was his own personal Nostradamus.

"Let's go home," he muttered, scooping Peter up off the ground and gently cradling his friend.

One second they were out in the parking lot, whole and present, and the next, the only thing that showed Hiro had even been there were the bloody remnants of Sophia's army.

xxx


	16. Capernaum

**Chapter Fifteen**

"**Capernaum"**

Hiro had the full intention of returning to the Sanders' without drawing attention to himself. For a few seconds, he simply wanted to sit there, alone in an empty wing of the house, letting his comrades linger in the few seconds left of the world they knew. Because after they saw Peter in his current state of death, nothing would ever be the same.

But distraction and anxiety screwed up the Japanese man's concentration on the way back. Instead of dissolving into the house without a sound, he landed right on top of a table, shattering a ceramic lamp with a loud _crash._

So much for subtle.

Hiro internally counted down the seconds before everyone would come rushing. _Three, _he thought, already hearing the rumble of footsteps and murmurs of confusion from Micah's room. _Two. _Their shadows were across the opposite wall now, preceding their footsteps as they stepped down into a personal kind of living hell. _One…_

…and here came the gasps.

A flash of blonde was the first thing Hiro saw in his peripheral vision, followed by a gawky brunette figure. Sylar and Niki swooped down onto Peter's corpse like mothers protecting their young. But though their faces showed alarm, an aura about them held relief. Even if Peter was dead, temporarily, he was still safe. Once they got the bullets out, he would rise and shine, good as new, and they could continue on their quest to defeat Linderman.

The three youngest, Claire, Molly and Micah, came next, after Mohinder. Claire heard the Indian man distinctly mutter "_My God," _under his breath. It was the last thing she really processed before the sight of Peter burned itself into her brain. All those scars…all that blood and gravel and dirt. Her stomach churned with hatred for their enigmatic rivals. What had they _done _to him?

It was the same question that weighed in the minds of everyone else in the room, except for the little weeping girl in the back. Molly knew the whole story, having watched it through her dreaming eyes. All these people around her, so shocked but still nonchalant…yes, yes, Peter's body had been manhandled most heinously, but they didn't know the half of it. They didn't know about the TRS, or Sophia's shadow. They definitely didn't know about Peter's torture and _what _the young man had tried so hard to protect-why they had even killed him in the first place. It wasn't over schematics- not really. There were some power struggle issues and more complex things that Molly couldn't understand involved, but nothing was as prevalent as Sophia's constant question: Where was Claire Bennet?

But if Molly revealed that Peter died to save the cheerleader once again Claire would blame herself for this whole thing. And Molly was not made to be add insult to injury, so she kept her lips sealed.

Sylar, Peter's self-assigned doctor over the years, had had enough of staring at his brother's cadaver. It was an excruciatingly long day and the all the amnesiac really wanted was to lie down on a nice bed and sleep. Preferably, with his brother snoring in the next room over, just so Sylar could be sure he was alive.

"Give him to me," he instructed wearily. "I'll get the bullets out an-,"

Something about Hiro reaching into his pocket stopped Sylar in mid-sentence. After a couple suspense filled of digging, the Japanese man held out his palm, revealing two bloodstained metal bullets. The slugs freshly reeked with the scent of death.

"I'm sorry," Hiro announced grimly, confirming the worst. "He's dead."

"Wha…" Sylar choked, wiping his eyes to make sure he wasn't imagining things.

Claire's head shook in astonishment like a pendulum, so steady and involuntary that she hardly noticed the motion at all. Her nails, which bore barely recognizable French manicure, dug into her cheek as her hand covered her mouth in horror. This had to be a nightmare…a terrible, terrible nightmare.

The scars she could understand. Whatever the scarrage was caused by, Peter never had healed from the _first time _he'd been hit with them. However, these were just bullets. Peter had been shot thousands of times, hadn't he? Why wasn't he healing now, _why? _

Even though she suspected this would happen, Molly was still the first one to cry. She hid her head shyly behind her hand and rushed out of the room bawling, not caring what sort of scene it made, or what people thought. Was this how Claire felt the day she arrived in New York to see Peter, all those years ago? Finding her hero's apartment occupied by an old lady, only to discover Peter with a nine inch deep head injury the next day?

Niki watched her son leave the room too, calling after Molly. She turned back to Peter's still form and tiredly brushed back his sticky hair with her slender fingers.

"Put him in the den," she told Hiro softly. "There's a fold-out cot that you can set him on."

"And after that?" Mohinder asked gravely.

A single tear rolled down Niki's right cheek. "I don't know."

While Niki and Molly were crying, and even Sylar looked on the verge of tears, Claire's face hadn't registered any emotion since she walked into the main room. Her entire mind was numb and confused, and for a moment she thought of Zach, back in Odessa.

"_Maybe your system rewired itself after the object was removed."_

"_I'm not a computer, Zach."_

But perhaps she _was. _A weapon for the FBI just like their greatest computer virus or super-tank. And whenever she couldn't understand something, she shut it out, ignored it, said there was an error and then stopped working on it entirely. If those weren't signs of being mechanic, she didn't know what was.

Hiro was scooping up Peter now, gently cradling his friend as one would a small child. He acted as if Peter was a featherlight bag of air, not showing one sign of struggle in lifting him up. Then again, Hiro never showed much of anything to begin with.

The room was utterly filled from top to bottom with silence. The four others crowded in, making a mini-alleyway to the hall. Eight eyes danced as Hiro carried Peter down the aisle, imagining an open casket at then end, in the den. Heads bowed in shock and dread as the two solemn figures passed.

Niki took Sylar by surprise when she laced her fingers with his, eyes averted in torment. He glanced down upon her stringy blonde head and gave her hand a comforting grasp before pulling her to his chest. The light wisp of liquid salt on her cheeks stained his shirt a little, but he was far from caring. Besides, Niki was getting rained on with Sylar's own teardrops, dripping off the end of his long nose, so they were even.

Mohinder looked to his left, and seeing the tearful couple made his own remorse hard to swallow. He sniffed and tried not to think of the reluctant kid with the emo hair who came to _him _first for answers, who later turned into a noble vigilante that saved his daughter's life.

Claire felt naked without anyone to comfort her. She was across from the other three, no arms of consolation around her, no whispers of sweetnothings in her ear. Nothing to be absorbed but the sounds of torment and the sight of Peter's bloody, battered body in Hiro's arms.

Hiro's gaze was downcast, but it was as if he was looking _through _Peter rather than _at _his fallen friend. He was a forever sober man, always clad in black to mourn their collapsed society, but now, he radiated misery like a hydrogen bomb of anguish.

Mohinder, Sylar, Niki, and Claire followed Hiro to the rec room, where the samurai gently laid Peter down on a windowside cot. Molly entered unnoticed, with Micah's arm around her shoulders. Claire slid onto the cot next to Peter, her eyes already burning holes into him.

There was a hushed stillness among the group, which Mohinder bluntly shattered when he reminded them, "What are we going to do with the body?"

The others all gave him dirty looks, while Molly's mind raced. _No…no…stop! He might be okay! If that chemical wears off, he could be okay!_

"Is there anything he wanted?" Niki questioned Sylar. "Did he want to be cremated or buried anywhere specific?"

Sylar shook his head, pausing to wipe his nose on the back of his wrist. He couldn't believe they were having this conversation.

"No," he replied. "We can bury him here."

Molly's throat became tight as she watched the adults head towards the doorway. _Wait, no! _she wanted to scream. _Don't bury him! He could wake up!_

"Are you okay?" Micah mumbled, squeezing her arm. Molly looked up at his confused expression, not realizing that she had begun to tremble.

She stepped out of Micah's hold. "Wait!" the teenage girl abruptly hollered. The others turned to look at her from the doorway.

"Molly?" Mohinder said, puzzled. "What's the matter?"

"Peter might wake up," his adopted daughter breathed. She could already tell by the disappointed looks on their faces that they thought she was out of her mind.

Niki knew how to handle this. Micah was the same way for weeks after DL had passed. _What if he survived? What if he's out there? He could be, Mom! _

"Sweetie, I'm sorry," she said with genuine sympathy. "But Peter's gone."

"No," Molly insisted. "You don't understand. I saw it. I saw what happened to him!"

Mohinder frowned, taking a step towards her. "Molly? What did you see?"

"The evil lady," Molly explained hurriedly. "The one who scarred him. She said that he's been given TRS, and that it would take about ten hours to go away."

Claire, who had spent all this time sitting by Peter and staring mournfully at him, immediately looked up at the teenager. "Temporary Restraining Serum?" she croaked.

Molly turned around and nodded at the woman, before going back to the other adults. "What if we wait a few hours? Could he heal if it wore off?"

All eyes were on Mohinder, the brain of the group. He gawked wordlessly, his shoulders going up in a helpless shrug. "I don't know. In theory, it makes sense, but I can't be certain. We've never dealt with a situation like this."

The room was silent once more, all except for the soft sound of Claire stroking Peter's hair. Sylar finally turned to Niki, his bloodshot eyes flashing.

"Do you have any tea bags?"

The mother reeled at his out of place question. "Uh…probably. Why?"

"Because," he sighed. "I think this going to be a long night."

xxx

With her often dangerous life, Claire definitely believed in the old saying, "You don't know what you've got till it's gone."

She just never thought that it would apply to Peter.

He looked so tense in death, anxious and restless as if he was still worrying. His face was frozen like a mask, screwed up in shock, and between the bullet wounds and the burns, more red covered his chest than natural beige.

The others had formed a sort of "waiting party" on the other side of the house, but Claire locked herself away from all the warm drinks and comfort food. But luckily, she had good company. Molly Walker also lingered in the dark den, curled up in a recliner. The girls hadn't exchanged anything other then "hellos" since Peter was brought in this room, though. Mostly, neither knew what to say.

Molly eventually broke the ice. "Did you like him too?"

Claire arched an eyebrow, but her irises were still foggy and mystified. "Huh?"

"Did you like him after he saved you?"

"I guess. How can you not like someone who saved your life?"

The blonde girl bit her lip. "That's not really what I meant," she said significantly.

The air around them was uncomfortable for a second, before Claire, finally understanding, muttered, "Oh. Right."

"He saved me too," Molly smiled. "I've had kind of a crush on him ever since."

Claire smiled back miserably, admitting, "For all his faults, he_ is_ charming. He's got a nice smile, too." But then, Claire seemed to recognize the weight of Molly's confessions, and she blinked. "Why are you telling me this?"

Molly crossed the room over to where Claire was, and she sat down on the cot.

"Because I've seen how he lives. He's depressed," Molly explicated seriously. "But when he's around you, it's like he has _hope_. He loves you; he always has. It's why he's so nice to me, too. I think I remind him of you."

Claire looked up, her green eyes flashing. She chose her words carefully. "He doesn't care about me, Molly. If he did, he wouldn't have run away when I was just starting to get to know him." She slumped, and to give the wondering child a little more clarification, she added, "Besides, Peter wouldn't like _that._ He's a swinger, and…stuff," she finished lamely.

"You haven't seen what I've seen!" Molly protested. "Before you came, he always moped all over the place, saying how much he missed you." She dithered. "And he does care about you. It's why the evil lady hurt him."

The brunette young woman glanced from Peter to Molly, and then back to Peter again. She kept her gaze on his meandering scars as she quietly said, "Why did she do this, then? And how?"

"He was protecting you," Molly elucidated. Her voice cracked as she told the tale. "Mrs. Linderman kept asking where you were, and he wouldn't tell her. So she-."

Claire's attention went back to the teenager, her lips parted, after the girl stopped. "Molly?"

Molly sniveled and collected herself. "She burned him with her shadow. It could move on its own, and she kept making it scar him. He was in pain; he kept screaming a lot. I couldn't stand to watch it, it was so awful."

Claire stared at the girl, face twisted into one of shocked horror. Standing between her and a killer at Homecoming, with a fifty-fifty chance at life or death was one thing. Letting his body be ripped apart at a torturously slow pace was an entirely other matter.

Molly grabbed her arm and suddenly broke down into sobs as her last emotional strains shattered. "I know it sounds impossible, but you have to believe me! It wasn't just a nightmare. It happened!"

The woman pulled Molly into a hug and stroked the child's hair. "I believe you," she whispered. "I believe you. It all makes sense, trust me."

"Oh, Claire," Molly whimpered into Claire's shirt, "he loves you so _much. _This _proves _it. Just give him a chance. Make him happy again, _please._"

Claire felt beads of wetness trickling out of her own eyes. She looked over Molly's shoulder, at Peter's body. Every ugly red mark obscuring his chest was put there by _her_. She remembered his howls of pain after getting scarred in the face. Having all those burns happen to him at once…he must have been internally begging for death, yet he never backed down. He proudly took Claire's safety to the grave.

Maybe Molly had a point after all.

xxx

"What if he doesn't wake up?" Sylar stated with gloomy bluntness.

His cohorts, Niki, Mohinder, and Hiro, each had a mug full of a lukewarm drink as they sat around the dinner table. Micah and Molly had retreated to the young boy's room to get some sleep, something Niki and Mohinder were too weary to feel overprotective or nervous about. And of course, Claire was still by Peter's bedside, most likely crying or giving an eight hour long confession or something. Women.

Niki brewed up a pot of coffee that had gone cold two hours ago, so a stale stench lingered in the back of the kitchen. Mohinder and Sylar were each on their third glass of tea, but not even the caffeine lifted their spirits.

Hiro, who had yet to say ever since he put Peter's body in the den, vaguely wondered if this was how all American wakes went. A bunch of people up at four o' clock in the morning drinking comfort-in-a-mug while they all moped about, waiting for the dead to rise again. It was terribly boring in hindsight, but there was still too much tension for anyone to get some sleep.

"He'll come back," Mohinder sternly objected to his friend.

Sylar's eyes narrowed. "And what if he _doesn't_? What if Molly's _wrong, _Mohinder? What if the TRS doesn't wear off?"

A muscle twitched in Mohinder's forehead before he evenly declared. "Then you can bring him back."

"Me?"

"Yes."

Sylar squinted, trying to formulate the idea into something coherent. "How?"

"Haven't you ever wondered how you can get shot five times and get back up?" Suresh fiercely asked, his voice unintentionally lowering.

"I still feel pain," Sylar argued. "And I don't heal, either!"

"But you still survive."

"And?! I'm lucky!"

Mohinder resisted the urge to slam his hand onto the table in impatience. "Sylar. You're a _necromancer_."

"But what does that have to do with me?If I can bring other people back to life, it has nothing to do with me being a…human cockroach!"

Sylar was normally a passive man, but the late hour and stress of his brother's death weighed down on him like Atlas's bane. Mohinder recognized this and excused his friend's frustration, yet he was still determined to have the last word.

"I'm convinced that your body does it naturally," Mohinder hastily explained. "Whenever you suffer from something that would normally be fatal, like getting stabbed in the chest as you did at Kirby Plaza, your body necromances itself. In other words, your brain keeps your body moving no matter what happens to it."

"So he's like a zombie?" Niki leaned forward, befuddled.

Mohinder groped for the words. "Not exactly. He's still self-aware, and his wounds will eventually heal at a normal rate, but it's a…survival adaptation, basically. Sylar could get shot fatally, and live through it. However, he would still need an operation, stitches, and lots of rest before his body could recover."

Sylar and Niki exchanged a Look, trying to see if the other one understood Mohinder's theory. Niki seemed just as confused as she did before, but Sylar was beginning to figure this out.

"If someone dies," Sylar began slowly. "I can bring them back, and they'll still have any wounds and pain they had when they died?"

"That's what I suspect, yes," the geneticist answered.

"But what if they were really heinously killed? Something that nobody could heal from? Like getting cut in half. Would they die again, or heal over the wound, or actually grow back their other half?"

Mohinder shrugged powerlessly. "I can't answer those particular questions. Luckily, Peter is indestructible, so you wouldn't have to worry about that issue. It was the bullet wounds that killed him, not the burns."

"And he can recover from bullet wounds," Sylar finished sensitively.

He looked down into the dregs of tea in his green ceramic mug, when he felt a soft, willowy hand entwine with his.

"Are you going to do it?" Niki kindly inquired.

Sylar moistened his lips. "If he doesn't awake in five hours, I have no other choice."

xxx

In Washington, Nathan Petrelli blinked back at three pairs of questioning eyes. Two of those pairs belonged to his sons, Simon and Monty. The other set was of his wife, Heidi.

"Nathan, _what _is going on?" Heidi demanded, glancing outside at the dawn. "Why did you call us down here so early?"

"The earlier the better," Nathan said vaguely. "It'll give you time to get packed."

"Cool!" said Monty, grinning. "Are we going on a trip?"

Nathan shook his head, and his grave attitude wiped the smile right off his son's face. "Not really."

He took a deep breath, before kneeling down in front of his seated family. "I've made arrangements for you all to leave. You need to go into hiding, at least for a little while."

"Why?" Heidi cried. "Nathan-,"

"Things are getting dangerous," he explained. "For the past few years, Sophia Linderman's been threatening Claire through Elisa Thayer. She has plants that work for her all throughout the government, and they keep giving me the mutant detainment bills. If I don't turn them into laws, she'll barcode Claire.

"Now, they've given me the last law, which is one that will exterminate anyone with abilities. After that, if they code Claire, she'll be killed."

Heidi gaped, outraged. "Oh my…why didn't you tell me this?"

"To protect you," her husband responded. Nathan looked at his boys and clapped a hand on Simon's shoulder. "To protect all of you. Sophia and Elisa know about Claire, but they haven't taken an intrest in any of you yet. But Claire's gone missing, and unless they find her, they're going to look for something else to hold over my head real soon. I can't let that be you."

"What about Angela?" Heidi whispered.

Nathan pursed his thin lips. "My mother has chosen a side."

"And Claire? Is she going to be okay?"

"She's in Peter's hands," Nathan drawled flatly. "As much as I hate him, I have to give him credit for how he feels about Claire. He'll keep her safe, at least. She's better off with him than with the Lindermans."

The family simply took in each other's company for a couple moments before Simon quietly said, "Where are we going to?"

Nathan rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Canada, for now. You should move around every week or so, and get as far north as possible. If you see anything suspicious, leave immediately."

"And when can we come back?" piped Monty.

Nathan looked over at his youngest son emotionlessly, and mysteriously answered, "When it's over."

xxx

Claire's snores were muffled by the crook of Peter's neck as she slept upon the lifeless young man. There would probably be a gleam of drool and tears across his skin when she awoke again, but what did any of it matter? He was dead, he didn't care…

No. No, she couldn't think like that, asleep or not. She had to keep her prayers a-flowing and her fingers crossed, just like everyone else in the house. It was cheesy, she knew that much, but positive thoughts turned into positive actions. It all had to do with energy being thrown into the cosmic universe or something like that. And at any rate, Molly insisted that once the TRS wore off, Peter would wake up. In theory.

But even after nine hours, there was no response from the would-be hero.

Once they started to see the sun rise, Micah vehemently insisted that Molly retire to his room and get some freaking rest already, leaving Claire free to grieve in her own way. Claire had kept her tears mostly silent for the past few hours, as her comrades flitted in and out of the lamp lit den, but as soon as Molly closed the door and left Claire alone with Peter, she broke down in her first real sobs since seeing Peter's limp body.

It wasn't just the death. Claire was uneasy over that, for sure, but her stomach was flipping even _more _as she thought about her last words to him. Oh, why had she been so terrible? _"Go to hell, you liar," _was the final thing he'd heard her say. And what if he did as she'd screeched? What if his soul was damned and screaming because of _her?_

And this is how she came to cry herself to sleep on top of him. Her fingertips gracefully rested across Peter's arm, which was as cold as the bottom of a penguin's foot. Her thumb idly brushed back and forth over one of Sophia's burns. Even if Peter didn't wake up, Claire was going to hunt down the bitch that did this to him. The same bitch that killed DL, as a matter of fact. What, did Sophia sit in her penthouse, sipping a $10,000 bottle of wine, just _thinking _of ways to make their lives wretched? To hurt the ones they loved the most? Or was she merely a radical killer who simply sliced down anyone who got in her way?

After a few minutes of crying, Claire's sniffles subsided into girly snores, and she eventually slipped into a delicate sleep. Her limbs were wrapped around Peter like a protective cocoon; any more entwined and some would start to whistle "necrophilia" under their breath. Or, "let it _go_, child," at the very least.

Many hours later, when she finally woke up again, her entire body felt hung out to dry. Claire's cheek stuck to Peter's skin with sweat. A few rays of sun poured noir-ishly through the blinds and a pattern of black and white bars blanketed the drained pair.

Claire pulled herself to a sitting position and wiped her damp face. Peter was still lifeless, and death had had its way with his hair as well. The short bangs of his crew cut, which he normally gelled to hang over his brow, were now flat and sticking to his white forehead.

It was ten minutes after nine, according to the large-numbered LCD alarm clock on the other side of the room. Just about ten hours, then. It was time.

Claire stared down at him expectantly, waiting for him to spring back up like the time she pulled the piece of glass out of his head. Just a big deep breath, a few coughs, and a little look of bewilderment later and he'd be fine.

But there was nothing.

Sighing, she stood up and padded across the room to look out the window. A clear, crystal blue morning. Not a cloud in the sky. Claire lived in California for a couple months a few years back, and the weather had always been perfect like this.

The window looked out over the small backyard. Niki's house was as far out on the outskirts of Las Vegas as humanly possible. Literally, the city _ended _around her house, and the dust of the desert began.

Claire remembered Niki and Sylar talking about where they would bury him. Jesus, that's right. If Peter didn't wake up in the next hour or so, that's what they were going to do, wasn't it? Dig a six foot deep hole and toss him in. Claire could hardly believe it was true, and not some dark cage of the mind she was trapped in.

But that spot out there, a few feet off from the porch…the last patch of grass before everything turned to crackled desert…that would be a nice place to put Peter to rest. The sun hit it just right and the grass (most likely manmade sod since everything, even rivers, seemed to be artificial out here) gleamed in the brightest, nicest color of emerald that Claire had ever seen.

What would they do after that, though? Who give the eulogy? What would they say? God, could this all really be a possibility for what they'd be doing in twelve hours?

As Claire's throat began to tighten again, there was a small rustle behind her, a hint of a noise only audible because of the room's absolute silence. Claire's feet skied on air as she rushed back to Peter's bedside, her lungs starting to hyperventilate.

_Calm down, _she told herself in despair. _You're__ getting your hopes up. _

Hold on…wait, no. There it was again. A twitch? Did Peter just _twitch_?

Ten hours of waiting. Ten vigorous hours of grieving and anticipating and hoping with all their hearts, and here it was…Like waiting for a fever to break. You know it has to happen _eventually_, but at some point, you wonder if it will_ ever_ end.

"Oh my…," Claire gasped, taking his unresponsive hand in her own. "Peter…God…wake up. Please wake up!"

For five long seconds, she didn't even blink. And just when her eyes started to sting and blur, Peter's upper body lightly convulsed, and the hand which she held just _barely_squeezed back.

Claire let out a garbled shriek of happiness. She urgently went into first-aid mode, lightly patting his cheek and trying to sit him upright. Mohinder mentioned that Peter's healing could take a while this time around. Not really because of the length of death, but because the TRS _slowly _faded away. It's not like the entire serum evaporated all in one burst. Peter's powers would return to him in intervals, with body coming back little by little.

She thought that she probably should have called for help, but what if this was a false alarm? There would be no use in getting the household riled up, only to have their hearts stomped on even more.

Besides, a selfish part of Claire wanted the first few seconds of Peter's rebirth to herself. In her defense, _she _was the one that had stayed by his side all night. Granted, Sylar would have been in there too, had he been able to handle the sight of his brother dead…

Still.

A sickening _squish _came off Peter's chest as the bullet hole wounds slowly but surely started to close up. Claire watched down in fascination as the skin got closer and closer together. The nearer the wounds were to healing, the deeper Claire's fingernails dug into his palm. Hopefully, he'd have enough healing mojo left after all of this to fix the broken hand she was probably giving him.

The bullet holes finally sealed up with a satisfying _pop_, and Peter's muscles all went flaccid again. Claire heard the ticking of his SYLAR watch counting the seconds as Peter lay dead as a doornail once more. Her breath hitched. _Oh no…no, it can't end like this…not when you were so close…_

"Peter?" Claire timidly squeaked, gripping his now limp hand.

And then the hand gripped back.

Peter's eyes shot open and then tightly closed as his back arched off the cot. Blood pumped to his muscles again, burning the flesh with it's heat. A series of wet, red laced coughs racked his body, expelling the grime from his lungs. But after the coughing subsided, something in his windpipe closed up. Now the _air _wouldn't go _in._

His mouth opened and closed, searching for oxygen that wouldn't come as his throat released several shrill whines.

"Peter," Claire said, starting to shake him. "Peter, come on. You can do this."

Peter whimpered, his body still shuddering, and Claire began to notice tears leaking out from under his tightly closed eyelids. His face was contorted in an expression of tremendous pain, and Claire felt her heart tighten in pity.

"Breathe," she sniveled, cupping his face in her hands. "Peter, breathe!"

His ears seemed to be working at least a little bit, for he opened his mouth wider to take in a gulp of invisible life force. However, the air was just out of reach, even as his back bent up.

But after a few seconds of struggling, the dam blocking off his windpipe burst, and half the room's air supply went exploding into Peter's lungs. And then came the screams.

They weren't nearly loud enough for the others to hear, but the terrible cries of utmost agony still sounded as if he was experiencing Sophia's torture all over again.

"Peter! Peter, it's me!"

He ignored her, thrashing about and scooting into an upright position on the couch. His yells were even louder now, so volumous that Claire heard Sylar yelling Peter's name in the distance.

"Getoff!" Peter shivered hysterically, his eyes not focusing on anything. Claire swatted against his flailing arms, trying to get ahold of him. What world was he _in _anyway?

"Peter!"

She ultimately managed to grab the sides of his face and forced him to look at her. Peter went dizzy with the sudden stillness, and spots flashed before his eyes. For a moment, his body went slack again, trying to recover from the brainfreeze-like effect of breath. But then his pupils dilated with recognition, and his hands moved to her waist.

"Claire?" he gasped. She nodded.

Peter let out a cry of relief and pulled her body to his chest in a suffocatingly tight embrace. It was an awkward position; Claire's nose was jammed into his collar bone at an odd angle and she couldn't find an air hole to breathe in. On Peter's side, it wasn't exactly peachy to have Claire pressing against his wounds either, but none of that mattered.

Claire found her own self getting weepy as she adjusted their position, pulling his shaking form to her breast. "You're okay," she cooed, rubbing his shoulders. "You're here, you're okay."

And as Peter's dry sobs were muffled into her shirt, he nearly believed her.

xxx

A few minutes before Peter's revival, the crowd awaiting a resurrection ran dry on conversation. Sylar, Niki, Mohinder and Hiro went their separate ways throughout the house, all trying to distract themselves from the do-or-die tenth hour.

Sylar stayed in the kitchen, pouring over a cold mug of green tea and a newspaper that he was only pretending to read. Yet nothing could banish the picture of his brother's cold, white as a sheet corpse from his mind.

On top of that, he was wrought with guilt. They'd fought right before Peter left, after Sylar complained about something so petty… God, even _he _knew he couldn't go on missions. He had no training, and teleporting made him deathly ill. But no, he was trying to impress Claire, who he in fact kissed behind Peter's back, before realizing that she wasn't the one for him.

And then Peter came back dead, making things even more complicated. _This, _Sylar decided, _is the worst day of my life._

A slender silhouette emerged from the hallway, and Sylar looked up. Niki was leaning against the kitchen counter, the look on her face insightful to his emoting. Sylar stood up from the table, walked around it, and met her at the end of the island.

"Hey," she said warmly. And then, she didn't prod with any stupidly pointless questions like "You okay?" or "What's wrong?" She merely embraced him and through that, said what words couldn't come out. _I miss him too. _

"I should be in there," Sylar said desolately into her hair. Niki rubbed his back sympathetically.

"It's okay," she assured him. "I was the same way when DL died. When we had his funeral, I couldn't go into the viewing room for two days."

Sylar set down his cold mug of tea onto the counter behind Niki, freeing his hands to embrace her back more fully. "I hate it every time. Every time he comes back injured or dead, I always wonder when it's going to be the last time."

"Shh," Niki murmured. "He's going to be fine."

"But what will we do if he _doesn't _come back?" Sylar cried again, pulling away from her. "I can't revive him; I've no idea how!"

Niki's eyes glazed over with wetness. "Then we try to bring him back again. And we keep trying until we're out of ideas."

Sylar hesitated, before quietly confessing, "Then…there's this really bad part of me that doesn't want him to come back. I don't know why. I love him to death, he's my brother, but…" Sylar rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes. "I dunno. Maybe I just don't know to face him after…"

"After…?"

"What I did."

Niki guided him by the elbow until they were sitting down at the dinner table. "Face him? You haven't done anything."

Sylar tapped his fingers on the table nervously. "No. I did. When he was on his mission."

Niki frowned, fearing the worst. But there were no decapitated bodies anywhere around here, so surely he couldn't have delved back into his own ways…

"I want to tell you. I want to tell _somebody. _But if I do," Sylar sternly ordered, after a moment's thought. "You have to vow that it will never get back to him."

"Don't make me promise that," Niki said, shaking her head. "I don't know what you're going to say."

Sylar swallowed. "_Please. _If he found out, I know he'd hate me on a level that's as deep as it gets."

Niki clutched his large, long-fingered hand. "I won't say anything." She paused. "Because if it's that serious, you need to tell him _yourself_."

Peter's brother took in a shuddering breath before mumbling, "I kissed Claire."

He was waiting for a smack to the head, an aghast expression, or the mother's hand to be wrenched out of his grasp. But Niki's face surprisingly didn't so much as twitch.

"Why would Peter be mad about that? I know he's protective over her, but you're his brother. I'm sure he approves of you."

"You don't understand. Peter's…" Sylar gritted his teeth, fighting to keep _that _secret in for once. He restated himself. "He just _would be_. It doesn't have to do with his opinion of me. Claire and I even stopped before anything happened when we realized that it wasn't _working, _but it still happened, and-."

Niki silenced him with a tug of his wrist. "Sylar, listen. Women come and go, but no matter what you two do to each other, you'll still be brothers. He'll forgive you eventually, if he'll even get mad in the first place.

"The person you really need to be worried about," she advised, "is Claire. She's going through a lot right now, and she's probably really confused. She needs someone to hold on to. Have you talked to her about this?"

"I haven't had the chance. Everything's happened so fast tonight..."

Niki nodded understandingly, and let him gather his thoughts. But Sylar never got to continue, for an ear-splitting yelp reverberated throughout the room.

It took a second to really sink in that someone had even yelled. But no, it wasn't in their imaginations. The scream, a distinctly male bellow was _actually_ resonating from the den on the other side of the house. Hiro, who entered the kitchen from the living room, showed no real emotion except for an urgent rising of his eyebrows. Sylar, however, jumped out of his chair as if he was endowed with super-speed.

"PETER!"

Everything happened in slow motion, from the time he looked across the room and shared a flabbergasted stare with Mohinder, who had appeared from somewhere else in the house, to the time he was bombarding his way through Peter's door.

Molly ran out of Micah's room with a blanket around her shoulders, her face completely aglow. "Is he awake? Is he awake?" she shouted excitedly, but none of the others could answer. Mohinder, Niki, and Hiro were too busy following in Sylar's footsteps to the door.

Only one person was absent from their animated crew, but Molly quickly remedied that. Micah, who was snoozing in his room, was missing this revival entirely. But if Molly Walker had anything to say, his winks were about to be cut short.

"Micah! Micah, wake up!" Molly shook the boy's sleeping form by the shoulders until he was groggily batting away her hands.

"Wha…whuzgoinon?" he grumbled.

"It's Peter! He's up!"

Micah's eyes widened. "Peter?"

"Yes! C'mon!"

When Sylar opened the door to the den, he found Peter and Claire entwined in a tight embrace. And to his surprise, he was _glad _to see it.Claire had a grin the size of Manhattan on her face, and, no matter whether he had feelings for her or not, Sylar still wanted her to be happy.

Peter opened his eyes and barely got in a blink before everyone in the room completely glomped him.

Between Sylar, Claire, and Niki, all he could see was cloth and hair. A glass of water held by a dark-skinned hand barely managed to push its way through the crowd and appear in front of Peter's nose.

The three people who had smothered him backed off and let him catch his breath. Peter took the drink from Mohinder with a grateful mutter before downing nearly all of the contents in one gulp. The water soothed his parched throat like the Nile through the Sahara.

He set the empty glass neatly down onto the floor and spotted Hiro, who was standing back from the action. He cocked his head a tad, to which Hiro replied with a telling wink. Ah. So _that's how._

The shock-haired young man mouthed _"Thanks, buddy," _before turning back to his comrades. His face was expressionless as he looked down at his scarred body, ran a hand through his sticky hair, and all-around remembered what had happened. The others anticipated his reaction on the edge of their seats, not knowing quite what to expect. Tears? Anger? For Peter to grab Mohinder and kiss him on the mouth?

But the last thing they expected him to do was grin. Tiredly so, but still legitimately.

"Hi, guys," he choked, and thus he was engulfed by bodies again.

Peter's sobs were deep, though dry, as arms embraced him from all around. Had it really been only a single night since his body was marred with Sophia's shadow creature? God help him, it felt like years and years…

Still, considering where he just was a few minutes before, maybe it _had _been.

Claire's tears of bliss trickled onto his cheeks, and he felt Niki pressing motherly kisses into his hair. Sylar, meanwhile, completely broke down onto his shoulder, his joyous cries echoing througout the room. Hiro, Micah and Mohinder stood a bit back from the action, looking heartfelt but awkward. And through the haze of hugging limbs and shrieks of jubilation, Peter spotted a petite figure lurking shyly in the back. He beckoned Molly over with a smile, and once the girl had crossed the threshold of people, she threw herself into Peter's open arms.

To be perfectly honestly, it hurt like all hell to have Molly slam her body right against his tender wounds. But he gritted his teeth and handled the pain with a heartfelt beam, for nothing could staunch his elation. Molly squealed delightedly in his ear as he tickled her under the ribs, while Claire and Niki had nothing but sheer 'glow' radiating from their faces.

Why did it take a near death experience for him to see this? That everyone cared so _damn much _about him. Sure, he'd always known that they liked keeping him around, just as a bodyguard and whatnot, but it never really struck him how much they truly _loved _him.

And how greatly heloved them. Every single one of them, all in different ways. Niki, the caring mother he'd never had; Sylar, his better half, his brother, his equal; Mohinder and Hiro, cousins from the Eastern shore, both as loyal as newborn puppies; Molly was the adorable niece who replaced Claire, and Micah was the epitome of everyone that Peter had ever saved, _why _he chose this life.

Then there was Claire.

What was Claire to Peter? His friend? His former niece? The Mary-Ann to his Professor? God, no…those were so bland, so everyday. What was he to call the woman that destiny threw to him; the damsel in distress who saved his life more times then he could count; the siren who had pushed and pulled him like a taffy machine for this past week, trying to decide whether she despised or adored him? Was there even a word for such a tumultuous love/hate relationship?

Their lifestyles had threatened to tear them apart when they reunited after four years, but even then there was still no denying the chemistry that crackled between them. It was the one constant in the past, present, and future. The air around Claire and Peter would always, always burn.

Peter lied to himself. He thought that wanting to strangle his brother for going near Claire was the feeling of an overprotective bodyguard, not of a jealous lover. It always made him feel so _green _whenever Claire was close to Sylar, like someone had dipped a paintbrush in envy and smeared it over his heart.

He was sick of pretending. Sick of pushing her away and scolding her, when all he really wanted to do was kiss her senseless. He was torn right in two, for even though they disagreed on nearly everything, she was still the starry-eyed cheerleader who called him her hero. She was still _Claire, _who knew that he liked pineapples on his pizza, that he had a birthmark shaped sort of like Snoopy on his thigh, and that he cried at _My Dog Skip _every time it came on.

Claire was not a person or a relationship. Claire was simply _love, _all of his feelings for everyone else blended into one person. These people. These bonds. It shouldn't have stayed silent for this long. Peter used to think that he was immortal, that life wasn't short for him, so there was plenty of time for secrets. But in reality, his time left was probably reaching its end. The life expectancy of a freedom fighter was never long, even if he did have healing powers. His enemies would find a way to knock him off, for good, one day…

Peter released Molly, and then looked forward, locking eyes with Claire. He absently felt the sticky patch on his shoulder, and took in the girl's red rimmed eyes. She had been crying on him, though for how long, he wasn't positive. Either way, she was the one who helped him cross between the two worlds of death and life, like an angel of light at the end of the tunnel. Claire had always been his guardian angel, looking out for him when he got hurt, making sure none of his wounds ever lasted. Even this one, which for all intents and purposes, should have stuck.

A few tears still spotted her cheeks, but these were signs of delight, not sadness. Yet Peter still couldn't stand to see her cry, no matter what the reason, and he reached his hand towards her cheek. And this time, unlike when he showed her the barcode on his wrist in that parking garage, Claire didn't recoil. She hardly noticed anything other than his smoldering eyes until his knuckles lightly brushed her face. As soon as their skin met, everyone else in the room dissolved away.

Claire remembered Molly's pleas. _Just give him a chance. Make him happy again. _Hearing the words from a teenager didn't make her a believer, but the look of sheer adoration in Peter's eyes managed to.

And then, the world was back to speed again, with Sylar, Molly, Micah, Niki, Mohinder, and Hiro in the same room as them. Peter looked down at his still-sobbing brother and grinned, wrapping an arm around Sylar. He leaned forward and brought Claire to his chest with his other arm, until they were a huddle of dried blood, body heat, and sniffles. Peter closed his eyes and just let the sounds and warmth of his brother and Claire wash over him. It suddenly all made sense. For even if they failed, even if they didn't save the world, and even if he never became the hero he longed to be, these two individuals would love him unconditionally, flaws and all, and that's all he really needed in life.

It was the dawn of a new day, and Peter was loved, he was alive, and he was home.

_xxx_

"_Chapter Sixteen: Heaven and Hell" coming soon…_

_xxx_


	17. Heaven and Hell

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it ain't mine.

**Some review replies:**

**Liza: **Thanks ) But no, this is indeed chapter sixteen, not chapter seventeen. This story had a prologue, remember? That counted as chapter zero, but this site displays it as chapter one.

**Pairegal21:** Well, you're in for a treat in this chapter )

**Elliesmeow:** Sylar and Niki? Well. "whistles". That MIGHT go some where.

Thanks to everyone who reads or reviews! **Also, this story is now rated M/R for thematic elements. So please remember to look under THAT rating whenever you search for this story, okay? )**

**Chapter Sixteen**

"**Heaven and Hell"**

A drastic turnaround had occurred in the Sanders' household. The glum mood, which lingered at night, and even went on into the morning, was replaced with an aura of giddiness in the early afternoon. After everyone had properly welcomed Peter back to the land of the living, the group dissolved out into their separate ways.

Sylar fell asleep almost as soon as he hit Niki's bed, and even the smell of bacon simmering on the stove couldn't wake him up. Micah and Molly lounged around in Micah's room (under Mohinder's careful eye, of course), while Hiro went off on a small, no-big-deal search and rescue.

After moseying around the house a bit, Claire settled back into the den to leaf through a stack of Niki's old fashion magazines. It was funny…most of these dated back to when Claire was in high school, and she _herself _had quite a stack of the same issues. But now, they were in the back room with a pile of knickknacks, collecting the dust of the past.

The soft sound of water dribbling onto tile continued to come from the bathroom as Peter showered. On finishing the fifth magazine she'd thumbed through, Claire briefly glanced up towards the door that her comrade was behind. It had been an hour now since he'd gone in there; the hot water was sure to be long dried up. But Claire surmised that it probably would take longer than usual to wash off the death with the dirt, so she let him be for now. Outdated _Cosmos _could keep her company until Peter emerged from the steam.

Then, as she was about to start on an article about the fashions of 2005, Claire spotted something moving out of the corner of her eye. Lo and behold, it was Petey, barely visible in the dim-lit room until he stepped in front of the window. Sunlight poured through the panes, creating a box of light in a sea of black. Peter's silhouette stood right in the middle, as if it was looking out onto the rising dawn.

Petey, who normally seemed filled to the brim with energy and emotion, was oddly passive today. Claire frowned at him as he curled up in front of the window, black chest heaving with a worn-out sigh. It was likely that after what Peter and his shadowy accomplice had been through, they were heavily fatigued, but could something that wasn't_ real_ actually be _tired_?

Then again, perhaps another reason was present.

"Petey?" Claire set aside the December 2004 _Cosmo. _The figure turned its head to face her, nodding tersely, before swiveling back to look out the window. Claire stood up from the couch and padded across the room.

Petey only looked at her when he was absolutely forced to. And even then, his head went back to its bowed position just a few seconds after. Claire imagined a visible stream of featherlight air being sighed out of the shadow's ebony lips.

The girl gently touched his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

He shrugged off her hand, though not unkindly so. Just _unhappily. _It nagged at the back of Claire's mind like a cat clawing at a scratching post, but she didn't press the issue. He was just a figment of light and air. Shadows didn't have hearts.

But that still didn't reduce the guilt in her own chest as she turned and walked away.

xxx

Sylar may not have had a broad experience with beds, but he was certain that Niki Sanders had the softest mattress in the world.

Perhaps that was just his fatigue talking though, for at midday, he remained to be curled up in a marshmellowy cocoon with lots of pillows and big, squishy blankets. The clock's crimson numbers burned into his retinas, and Sylar let out a low moan of frustration. Even when he was dead tired, he hated sleeping past noon almost as much as he hated doors being slammed and rubberneckers on the interstate.

Sometimes he envied Hiro for that lovely ability to stop time, and those "sometimes," were the split seconds where he truly did fear himself. Sylar was a relatively secure, self-aware man, but every now and then, a trickle of doubt reared its ugly head. _What if I turn into that monster I was? What if I relapse? I don't want to be a killer, that's not who I am…_

And then he would be fine again, for, he reminded himself, doubting ones sanity is almost always a foolproof sign of a right mind. It's those who were unaware of their dark tendencies that were, in fact,mad.

A shapely figure filled Niki's doorframe and lightly rapped on the wood. "You gonna sleep in there all day?"

Sylar rubbed his brown eyes to clear the film off the lenses, and Claire slowly came into focus. Though she looked to be on the wrong side of disheveled, her sing-song voice and flawless grin were far more noticeable. She'd been happy as a lark ever since Peter woke up, bristling about the house with a smile as bright as a full moon. It was only in the past hour that she'd retreated to the den to veg out.

Sylar forced himself to sit up. Claire's outline was a little hard to make out because of his slightly bad vision, but she became more visible upon approaching the bed.

"Hey," Sylar said with gravelly morning-throat. "Have you slept any?"

Claire shrugged. "No. I'm not that tired." She was unfazed this. As a healer, she could go a lot longer than a normal person without sleep. It was a trait that the FBI exploited more times than she particularly liked.

"It looks like_ you_ got some sleep," she pointed out, smirking a tad at his messy mop of bed hair. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Sylar responded, rubbing his chest and coughing to clear his scratchy throat. "Peter. Is he okay?"

The young woman put her hands on her hips. "Mmm-hmm. He's taking a shower. He's been in there forever."

Sylar blanched. "Are you sure he's alright, then? He could have passed out, or hit his head-."

Claire grasped her friend's shoulder. "He's fine." She let out a little laugh that sounded like chimes. "I heard him singing in there about ten minutes ago."

Peter's brother relaxed back against the headboard, closing his eyes. "Good," he said, a bane clearly lifting from his shoulders. "Good."

Claire bit her lip and gingerly sat beside him, preparing to tread into the more dangerous territory now that the ice was broken. "Now that we finally have time to actually _talk, _there's something I need to say."

Sylar peeked at her through one lifted lid. "Yes?"

Claire wavered. "I'm sorry," she stammered at last. "I'm sorry I led you on. I didn't want to hurt you, I just…I felt bad for you and I thought that maybe if I got to know you, we could get closer, but last night when you…"

She paused, blushing, ultimately making the decision to lay on the jam with a blunt knife.

"Basically…can we start over?" Claire implored. "I kind of want to act like none of that stuff ever happened. Not that there's anything wrong with you, it's just-,"

"Don't worry about it." Sylar absently toyed with a little thread that was coming unraveled from Niki's bedsheet. "I understand. You didn't feel anything when we kissed, did you?"

Claire nodded sheepishly at his straightforwardness. But that was Sylar for you; a gentle giant who didn't beat around the bush.

"I know how that feels," Sylar declared frankly. "Quite honestly, I didn't really feel anything either"

Claire slumped in relief. "You didn't?"

Sylar smiled wryly. "Yes. Which, actually, wasn't something I had anticipated. I really thought…" He pursed his lips, stopping in mid-sentence. Claire, sharp as Hiro's samurai sword, probably had it figured out anyway.

"I know," she agreed. "I wanted to feel something too, but there weren't-,"

"Any sparks," they said in unison, and Claire let out a light giggle.

Sylar cocked his head and gazed upon her quizzically, debating whether to throw a lure. "And," he added sincerely, "there's the issue of Peter."

"What about Peter?" Claire shrilly rejoindered.

"Claire." Her name had no meaning, but Sylar's tone and expression was pure 'I know what you did last summer.' Claire wilted like a flower in the summer.

"Yeah," she muttered. "Peter."

Sylar put a hand on her shoulder considerately, and used his other hand to tilt her chin up. "I like you, Claire," he softly confessed. "But my brother loves you."

Claire lightly scoffed. "I feel like everyone's been telling me that lately."

"It's true," Sylar answered simply. He let his hands drop back to his lap. "And he needs someone like you in his life. He needs guidance, and you know how much he listens to _me._"

_Well, _Claire thought. _That is pretty true. _

"Lastly, eh, you mentioned that we should start over," Sylar changed the subject after a couple seconds, sitting up straighter against Niki's pillows. He held out his palm for Claire to shake. "So, then…hello. I'm Sylar."

Claire's cheeks brightened as she grinned even wider. "Hi, Sylar. I'm Claire."

The embrace she gave him next was the most genuine gesture of affection she had ever shown toward Sylar, and that alone filled her heart with clean joy. With the events of her recent life, she needed all the friends she could get.

xxx

When Claire later entered the den, a light wisp of steam hung in the air, a remnant of Peter's shower. The man himself was clad in a black cotton bathrobe, standing in front of a fogged up floor-length mirror when Claire walked in.

"Clean enough now?" she asked, and Peter looked over his shoulder in surprise. His face relaxed upon sight of her.

"I'm good," he replied airily. He turned back to the mirror and peered back at the scars peeking out from the front of his robe. "The water didn't feel so great on the burns, though."

His reflection glanced to the left, directly at Claire, and she gave him a sympathetic gaze before shutting the door. As Peter looked back into his own eyes once more, she crossed to the other side of the room, to the end table, and grabbed a small tub of translucent, amber colored lotion.

"I thought they might hurt," she commented, givinging him the bottle. "When you were showering, I asked Niki if she had anything. She dug up this from her medicine cabinet."

"Aloe?" he confirmed, running a finger over the label. "Thanks."

Claire winked shyly at him, and her natural intuition sensed that this conversation was over. There were things she wanted to mention to him, but now wasn't the time or place. Plus, a long talk about feelings probably wasn't a good idea when Peter was half-naked either.

She turned to leave, and her hand was nearly turning the doorknob when:

"Claire?" he called.

She merrily pivoted back around on her heel, expecting him to ask her for some hair gel or something. But Claire nearly lost her senses off what was _actually _before her.

Peter had found some way to ditch his bathrobe in the time it took for her to walk to the door, and was now down to just a loose towel hung low around his hips. The blemishes across his chest and back were shining bright and wet from the shower, but for the first time, Claire didn't see them as ugly. Peter was covered in his own bravery, etched into his skin for the world to see.

It was beautiful.

If Peter caught on to her feminine awe, he covered it up well. Instead, he innocently held up the aloe bottle and tapped two fingers on his shoulder. "Can you get my back for me? I can't reach it."

"You haven't picked up some sort of elastic power, like Mr. Fantastic?" she said carefully, sounding a hell of a lot more stable than she felt.

Peter snorted. "No, not yet."

Claire rolled her eyes, acting burdened as she took the aloe from him and pumped a few dollops into her palm. "Well, fine. If you're that _pitiful_."

Peter began to chuckle, but the glee caught in his throat when Claire's fingers made contact with his back. Claire's hand was cold against his scorched skin, the aloe like a soothing butter rolling across his wounds. It evoked a feeling similar to a massage: a good sort of pain.

She rolled the heels of her hands across his back until soon, there wasn't any trace of the balm left. But Claire's strokes still crept down his spine, tortuously slow and keen, gently raking across his every burn.

Peter shuddered almost violently, the sudden shifting of his muscles catching her off guard. Claire immediately pulled back, coming out of her mental haze, her cheeks already a rosy pink. She brushed her palms on her pants to get the remaining wetness off.

Peter was about to turn around and mutter an awkward thanks before they heard a knock on the door. As Claire went to go answer it, Peter grabbed his discarded robe from the couch. Otherwise, this would…not exactly look appropriate in front of one of his boys.

But there was no Sylar or Mohinder, or even Hiro in the frame. Just lithe Molly Walker, hair messily piled on her head like Cindy-Lou Who, a small pile of clothes in her clutch. Claire invited her in with a beam and one of those girly half-armed hugs, but Molly's petite features still showed discomfort.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" she said with the utter bashfulness of the a chaste young girl.

"No, nothing. We were just talking," Claire casually assured her, but Peter inwardly disagreed. He could still feel her touch on his back, her breath unconsciously tickling the sensitive spot between his shoulder blades. That had certainly been more than _nothing._

"Um, anyway," Molly said, wringing her hands, "do you want any breakfast? There's still some bacon left over. And, these," she handed the clothes to Peter, "are yours. Niki went ahead and washed them."

Peter held up the shirt and gratefully saw that it was his, not DL's. As much as he was thankful for the kind offer of Niki's husband's clothes, he didn't particularly feel like wearing another man's boxers. Rogue life hadn't taken away _all _of his standards of living.

He set the clothes on the table. "You're totally my hero, you know that?" Peter grinned at the teenager. Molly shifted her shoulders humbly.

"I didn't do anything," she said honestly, gesturing to his garments. "I just carried them here."

He shook his head. "Nah, not just for that. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."

Before Molly could turn even redder, he swooped down and pressed a quick, innocent kiss on her cheek. Molly ducked her head, for he had managed to embarrass her something terrible. Claire couldn't help but feel happy for the teenager though. She could relate well; if Peter had done that to her when _she _was sixteen, she would have been flying high with hero worship and modesty for days.

_Hell, _she considered, _if Peter did that to me _now _I wouldn't be complaining. _

Molly batted her eyes playfully at Peter like Little Bo Peep before skipping off to help Niki clean up from breakfast. The man watched her leave the room with a quiet, nostalgic amazement about him that Claire couldn't exactly place.

"She reminds me so much of you," Peter remarked. "It's eerie."

Claire frowned. She hadn't expected that. "I'm not a little girl, anymore, Peter," she said defensively. The words were mechanic and overused, but Peter still of the same mind.

"I know," he softly concurred. "You're all grown up."

The young woman felt a tidal surge in her stomach. She pretended to be interested in her feet as Peter stripped down to the towel again and threw on the white wifebeater that Molly brought him.

"So, did you join the tea party too?" he evenly inquired, stepping behind the closet door to mask his more revealing undressings. Claire didn't understand, and when she glanced up to ask him, he was gone.

A rustle from the closet caught her attention though, and between the cracks in the doors, she could see flashes of olive skin and raven hair. Her eyes widened. Sure, the door completely covered him, but was Peter really getting dressed not ten feet away from her?

Claire crossed her arms nervously. "Um…tea party?"

"When I was dead," Peter bluntly explained, "were you out there with the others?"

Oh. The tea "party." Claire scoffed. If that's what Peter took as a party, she didn't even want to know what he thought of a funeral.

"No," she replied rather openly. "I was in the den the whole time."

The sounds of fabric rustling and zippers popping abruptly stopped, and Peter stuck his head out from behind the door to gawk at her, surprised but glad.

"Why?"

He was waiting for an answer, but Claire had no idea what to say. Not that she was wondering whether to lie or tell the truth…she simply had no real grasp on what the truth _was. _Was she worried about him? Was that it? But no, not right. Everyone else was worried about him, and _they_ hadn't held his dead hand for ten hours. It couldn't have been love either, for the same reason. Claire subtly chewed at her lip, before finally letting her heart do the talking.

"I didn't want you to be alone when you woke up," she proclaimed quietly. "I know how scary that is and you looked like you'd been through a lot. I guess I wanted to let you know that you were safe."

Peter's lips parted as though he was about to say something, but he stayed inaudible and went back inside the closet.

Claire took their lack of face-to-face contact as an opportunity. Carpe Diem and all that. "Um, and Molly mentioned something to me, too." She took a deep breath and hurriedly spewed out, "She said you took those hits because Sophia asked you where I was."

A pause. "Right."

"And…you didn't you tell Sophia?"

"No. I was trying to protect you. All of you. If Sophia knew where you were, she'd find Niki, Hiro, everybody. I couldn't let that happen."

"Yeah, but look what she did to you. It must have been a living hell."

Peter emerged from behind the closet door, fully dressed in black jeans and a white wifebeater, hair spiked over his brow with wetness. He vaguely rubbed his hand over a ruby mark that peeked out from the collar of his shirt.

Peter who was almost jovial for the first time that day, slipped back into indifference at her comment. "No," he retorted grimly. "Believe me. It wasn't even _close_ to hell."

She thought he was being sarcastic at first, but a closer inspection showed that Peter's piercing expression harbored a secret. He knew something that she didn't.

Claire gulped and drowned in her own contemplations while Peter apathetically patted her shoulder. "I'm gonna go get breakfast," he announced, and left the room without looking back.

xxx

Petey the shadow was on the back porch the next time Claire saw him, not long after she and Peter wordlessly snagged a few scraps of bacon and eggs from Niki's stove. The creature, when it sat on the swing, was a strange epitome of night and day: a boat of black matter on an ocean of white-washed wood.

The swing rocked forward and back, and back and forward, and then forward and back again in a never-ending cycle of inertia while Petey stared off at the dusty mountains in the horizon. Though the seat beneath him rocked and swayed, he himself didn't move at all. He just stared without eyes, and smelled the dust without nostrils, and felt the wind on his atomless body without nerve cells until he could hardly take it anymore. And yet he still stayed out there, unmoving, unfeeling, unemotional.

As Petey watched the life he couldn't have, Claire watched him through the screened back door, an uncanny sense of dread in her gut. She couldn't walk away from this anymore. Something was up, and Claire needed to get to the bottom of this barrel of monkeys before it got out of hand.

Petey, powerful and emotional as he was, still didn't have eyes in the back of his head. Claire used that to her advantage, and kept an eye on him for a good fifteen minutes until he finally sat up from the swing and phased into the house. Claire ducked behind the island in the kitchen before following his movements down the hall. Her lungs tightened and stung as she held her breath, and blisters appeared and dissolved as she painfully tip-toed across the hardwood floor. Petey walked through the wall to his left, into the guest room, still oblivious to Claire's presence.

She let out the breath and relaxed, inaudibly thanking whatever God was out there. But even with all her sneakiness, and stealth, and super keen senses that arose as she tried to enter the guest room, she still managed to walk right smack dab into Peter Petrelli.

It took her by surprise more than it hurt. Who was supposed to assume that, as they turned a corner, someone _else _would already be there? But before she could go careening into the wall and lose that particular fight with physics, Peter's hands were already on her arms, steadying her. Claire tried to hang on to the moment, but its instance was hardly anything of significance. Peter's hands were gone almost as quick as they'd caught her.

However, Claire was still harshly slapped with the memory of their first meeting, smashing into each other in the halls at Union Wells High School on that cool fall night, six years ago. The world was so colorful back then, spun in vivid reds and yellows and blacks. Peter's hair had been long and sleek, hanging over his eyes in a way that made him look laughably younger. Claire still had blonde ringlets and a cheerleader's gym bag, as well as a quirky smirk and fierce spirit that, at sixteen, proved her far wiser than her classmates.

But even though hair styles and trenchcoat colors and the type of uniform changed with time, Peter's body colliding into hers still felt exactly the same.

She clumsily brushed passed him, trying not to look him in the face. However, Claire couldn't help but notice something different as she glanced just a _little bit _to her left on a whim. Peter always had such an intense gaze that seared her bones, but today, his eyes were fogged over. Glazed. Dead, like he had never quite woken up from the grave. She had seen him lost in thought before, but this was…odd. He didn't seem that _thoughtful…_more like..._depressed._

"Um…Peter?" Claire said, her voice cracking when it glossed over his name. He turned around emotionlessly, and held his arms slightly open.

"What's up?" he replied lethargically. A fake, tired smile was trying to make its way to his lopsided lips, but it didn't quite take. Claire's muscles tightened.

She took a step forward. "There's something you need to know."

Peter's eyebrows rose. "Yeah?"

Claire gestured towards the nearest empty room. "Come in here." Her voice was low and beginning to worry him. Peter could tell she was trying to mask her concern, but for an FBI agent, she wasn't exactly good at being secretive.

He nodded and followed her into the well lit guest room and silently closed the door behind him. "Claire, what's goin' on?" he immediately murmured. "Something's wrong."

The brunette girl visibly sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Nothing's _wrong," _she spilled. "I just noticed something weird. I was hoping you could help me figure it out."

Peter slid his hands in his pockets and shrugged. Claire took that as an invitation.

"Your shadow's been acting really freaky," she began in a low whisper, gesturing over to Petey, who lingered in the corner.

"When does he act _normal?_" Peter retorted out of the corner of his mouth.

Claire shot him a look of disdain, but still happily recognized that Peter referred to his dark twin as "he" as opposed to "it."

"That's kind of my point," she insisted. "He's normally so energetic, you know? But all day he's been moping around. He won't even acknowledge me."

Peter's eyes flitted from his shadow to the young woman before him. The room suddenly felt smaller, as if he was surrounded by the body of an anaconda rather than the walls of a ranch house. For the past few hours, he assumed he had all his bases covered, but Claire's observation was one he had overlooked. That's all it ever took, was one slip-up, and the house of cards came falling down.

He forced a reassuring smile on his face to reconstruct the jacks and aces.

"It's nothing," he quickly said. "Even he can't be happy _all _the time. He'll probably be better tomorrow."

He swiveled to leave, to get out of that suffocatingly uncomfortable room, but a small hand caught his arm before he could escape. Claire pulled him closer, near enough to take a good study of his face. She tethered him down and shoved her mental pleas into him like an emotional lie detector test.

"Are you okay?" she asked, tightening her grip on his elbow. Peter opened his mouth to automatically tell her some cookie-cutter version of "I'm fine," but no sound came out. The need for honesty that emitted from her upset stare capsized his ship of generic comfort.

"I…," he said lamely, unable to meet her eyes. "I don't…Claire…"

Claire grabbed his other wrist and forced him to look at her. "What happened? You and Petey both have been acting quiet since this morning. At first I thought it was just aftershocks from your revival and stuff, but its different then that." Her voice hit a slightly hysterical note. "I can tell you're happy but at the same time…I don't know. But I do know you can tell me. I promise."

Peter looked to the ceiling uncomfortably, and ten long seconds passed before he could finally look back at her face again. His shadow still slithered in the dark corners of the room, barely visible when it wasn't in the light. He had been planning on keeping this a secret…at least for now. Though, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to tell Claire. If anyone would understand, it would be her…

"Okay," he gave finally, and then repeated, "okay."

He led her to the chaise lounge and they sat down, turned towards each other, the sides of their legs just barely touching. Peter absorbed her curious features for a few seconds before he began.

"When we die," he said slowly, eyes narrowing in thought, "you know what happens. It's sort of like sleeping. Everything goes black, and then you wake up later, and everything's okay again."

Claire nodded. That was a more or less accurate description of death to a so-called immortal. Nothingness. Sleep. Suffocating, inescapable night. But after a small while, they awoke and could continue on with life as though death hadn't given it another gossamer of a kiss.

Peter swallowed, and remotely noticed how tight his throat was, how much his saliva burned going down his windpipe. His words started to become choked. "That…that didn't happen this time."

The smallest hint of a gape started to form at Claire's mouth as a _hunch _wrought with terror started to form in her mind. Unless Peter was leading her in a different direction than the truth, the off-white brick road instead of the yellow one, she was pretty sure where this was going.

"God," she whispered pointlessly.

"Yeah, there is a God," Peter bluntly stated. "I didn't see him, but if there's a Satan, there has to be a God, right?"

Claire brushed her hair off her forehead, dumbstruck and unable to form a coherent sentence. "You…there's a…" She took a deep breath and gathered herself before quietly managing to ask Peter, "Where'd you end up?"

Peter's gaze fell to the space beneath her feet, and that was answer enough.

"Peter," Claire choked, throwing her arms around his neck. He winced as her body collided with his scars, but Claire still felt his warm arms wrap around her body, returning the embrace. What else could she do? Words were reduced to simple vibrations on air, and her tear ducts were already dried up. There was no Dr. Ruth column on "How to console someone who's just been through Hell and back. Literally."

Peter slipped out of her brief, loose hug. There was more he wanted to say; Claire could tell by the raw intensity brimming behind his burgundy-brown irises.

"I got Petey from Sophia," he elucidated. "She has a free-walking shadow too, and it's what burned me."

"That's what Molly said."

"Mm. Well…Sophia said that the shadows are sort of like souls. That's why hers can harm me, and why _mine _always," he averted his eyes, "wears its heart on its sleeve."

"That's why Petey's been so depressed," Claire realized, glancing over at the moping shadow in the corner. "He doesn't cover emotions up, and you've been…" She trailed off, and tried to catch Peter's eye, but he was too fixated on his lap to look up. All the dots were connected now. Peter would never be able to keep his emotions a secret anymore, because his soul, a ball of raw sense and feeling, was free for the world to see. It was rather unfair, Claire thought. Everyone should have a right to _some _privacy. But maybe privacy was a luxury the world couldn't afford anymore. That could probably explain why there were a couple hundred telepaths running around the world in their current day.

Peter's battletorn heart still disturbed Claire though, even if he was easier to figure out. The way his face's windows were all fogged up with winter frost and the defeated slump of his shoulders were more like features of the lost little boy who thought he could fly, rather then the grown man who fought for freedom and equality. Claire always found his smile a bit goofy looking with that crooked lower lip, but as she stared upon his lonely form, she wanted nothing more than to see him beam again.

Yet another insight crept up like a black mist into the back of her mind, poisoning her with guilt. She had no right to cheer him up, for as, if her suspicions were correct, she herself had quite a role in his damnation. _"Go to hell, you liar." _The words replayed themselves over in her head like a Top 40 hit that everyone was sick of by week two on the charts. Were the words of a human powerful enough to do damage, or had Peter's own actions evoked his fate? And what if Claire especially _meant _it, for at the time, she _did?_ What if, what if, and why?

She ran her dry tongue across her chapped lips in a futile attempt to moisten them. "I'm sorry, Peter," she sniffed, resting a nervous, trembling hand on his arm.

"You didn't do anything," he responded dispassionately, limbs frozen.

Claire cringed and turned her head, before squeezing his arm and gritting out. "I think I did."

Peter's right eyebrow quirked up questioningly. "What?"

Claire inhaled sharply. "When you left, I damned you. Remember?"

Peter's brow furrowed in thought, before he nodded in remembrance. Then, his features softened and put his hand over Claire's, which was still gripping his shoulder.

"This wasn't your fault," he said firmly. "Trust me. I was probably condemned a long time ago."

Claire probably shouldn't have agreed with him, but internally, she couldn't help but concur. Sandra Bennet always told her "God don't like ugly," and some of the stuff in Peter's past definitely could qualify as hideous. Murders, promiscuity, alcoholism, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. He had pinged every one of the seven deadly sins at some point in time, except perhaps gluttony. Peter hardly ate at all, except for Ramen noodles and candy. The Ten Commandments were also equally as shattered on his part.

"I deserved it," he admitted, eyes just barely glistening. "You were right, Claire. What's happened to me?"

Claire didn't have an answer, or at least one that she could formulate into an understandable sentence. She had more of a 'feeling' or an 'aura' about the _what. _

"All the things I've been fighting for doesn't even matter if my actions are screwed up." It was indeed true: the road to Hell is paved in good intentions. Peter sighed, and the silent, hardly noticeable tears that gleamed in his eyes tucked back into their hiding spots. They were too tired to fall today. "I don't how to fix it," he said in utter helplessness. Then, as if it nearly broke him to admit such a thing, he finally intoned, barely audible, "I should have listened to you. I'm as bad as you said I was."

"No," Claire opposed him defiantly, placing her palm over his heart. A mental reel of the past week played in her mind, of Peter stopping that bullet that Marcus Ferguson fired at her; of his horribly scarred body, disfigured to protect her from Sophia at any cost.

"I was wrong," Claire continued. "I was just afraid. I thought that I'd lost you. But underneath everything…" Peter's intense gaze was back now, making her stomach nervously flip. She could luckily feel his heart race underneath her warm hand. At least they were in this together.

Claire cleared her throat. "Underneath everything…I know you're still the same guy I met at Homecoming."

Peter's breath hitched, stunned from her opinions of him. He didn't know whether to correct her or to take it and be flattered. Truth was, even he knew that all he ever wanted was to save the world. Nothing could convince him that his intentions were any less noble. It was the way he went about fulfilling that goal that evoked such controversy.

He was so lost in rigorous thought that he hardly noticed Claire's smooth fingertips moving away from his breast and to other regions of his torso. She traced the visible scars through Peter's thin white wifebeater, her expression sadly intrigued. Her hand zigzagged across the muscles of his chest before working its way up to his collarbone, where an especially ghastly red mark curved onto his back like a permanent shoulder strap.

Peter's hand smacked over hers, stopping her exploration of his body. It wasn't that he didn't want her to. It felt too _good. _Claire's hands on him felt so incredibly addictive and natural that he could hardly bear to-

Oh, screw it. Screw trying to fight against this anymore. _Screw _trying to extinguish their everlasting flame and the chemicals exploding between them. If his death and trip down under had taught him anything, it was that life was short. If Peter didn't do this now, it might never occur. Or it could inevitably happen.

Either way, north and south both pointed to his current path: little by little reaching towards Claire's face and cupping her cheek, leaning in, about to seal their fates forever-

They were mere centimeters apart, so close that he could feel her scorching breath like hot wax dribbling on his lips. And just when he was about to get everything he'd ever wanted from her, he pulled away.

_Should have known, _Claire thought miserably. _I'm just another girl in the book. _

However, Peter didn't seem to be looking upon her with rue. In fact, he wasn't looking at her at _all. _His watch smoldered over her shoulder, into the face of his own shadow. Petey was, for lack of a better word, _staring_ shamelessly at his host and Claire before their kiss. Peter rolled his eyes at his silhouette, waving his hand in a 'shoo' gesture.

"You mind?" he grumbled, and Petey sheepishly came out of his reverie. The shadow figure shrunk noticeably in embarrassment before slinking off through a wall to give them some privacy. Claire grinned after it, but Peter seemed disgruntled with Sophia's ability.

"Souls," he rolled his eyes, before leaning down and finally catching Claire's lips with his own.

As soon as Claire's mouth covered his, Peter wondered how he could ever have kissed anyone else. His dalliances over the past few years had always been missing something, and he _did _suspect, in the darker parts of his mind, that the lack of Claire Bennet was to blame. Still, nothing could have prepared him for how downright _electric _her kiss was.

He felt Claire's fingers reach up and rake through his messy, new-moon-colored hair. Peter's own hands were warmed as they traveled over her body, brushing against the tips of her brown locks. It was the only thing he didn't like about her appearance: that dyed hair. When it was blonde, they had perfect contrast with each other. She, tiny, bright, and blonde; he, wiry, dark-featured, and quiet. Now though, they were too gloomy together. The one thing that could bring a smile to Peter's face was that rare blonde sunshine in his face in the mornings. He'd already seen enough brown hair for the past thirty-three years in his _own _reflection.

Claire's nails dug into his arm enough to draw blood, right above an especially nasty burn, but he still accepted her, the pain she caused him and all. He opened his mouth to take her deeper, tangoing sensually with her tongue. Everything he'd ever wanted was stirred into that one kiss, every emotion he'd ever felt towards Claire, everything he had yet to discover. They kissed violently and adoringly, full of anger and love, and dozens of other contradictions that could only work with Peter and Claire.

He felt his pants tighten at the zipper when her hands slipped downward, fingers twirling into his belt loops. Claire maneuvered herself to straddle his lap without ever leaving his lips, just a few layers of fabric separating them from what they'd both pined after for days now, months, years…

But then the face of someone even more familiar sprung into Peter's mind. The one of a kind, slightly geeky face with puppy eyes and thick eyebrows, and an aura that internally screamed _Tell me who I am!_

His brother.

"Cl-Claire," he gasped, as she slid a cool palm up the back of his undershirt.

"Shh," she murmured, tapered fingers tangled in his hair.

"Mpmph! Claire!" he insisted with more desperation. If she kept this up, it would be impossible for him to turn back.

And for that reason, Peter was forced to abruptly pull away, leaving Claire's face goofily posed in the air. She recovered quickly, eyelids fluttering up in confusion, and she brought a fingertip to her bottom lip.

Peter's face was turned downward, his expression one of ashamed realization.

"I'm sorry," he panted flatly. "I shouldn't have."

When Claire's only reply was a furrowed brow of bewilderment, Peter shortly added, "Sylar."

Their intimate position wasn't quite so romantic now as much as it was clumsy. Claire hastily slid out of his lap and onto an entirely separate cushion of the couch. Considering the two syllables that Peter just coughed up, Claire was starting to get a dirty feeling on her skin, like that of a disease ridden whore. It didn't really sink in until Peter said it, that Claire had made out with two separate men, brothers no less, in the course of twenty-four hours.

God, she _was _a whore.

But wait a minute, there was more to this story. She and Sylar cleaned up their mess. There was no relationship going on, there was no commitment. Claire and Sylar were case closed, both free agents to do whatever they pleased. If it only took Claire a few hours to understand that she wanted Peter Petrelli as her one and only, then she had a _right _to, dammit. The same would go for Sylar, if he suddenly grabbed Niki and swept her off her feet.

Claire steeled herself with confidence and ran her thumb over Peter's cheekbone. "Sylar and I aren't like that, I swear. I talked to him and we both decided to just be friends."

"He wanted that?" Peter replied, flabbergasted. His lovesick puppy of a sibling had done nothing but dote on Claire ever since Peter rescued her from the FBI HQ. And now, Sylar just decided to let her go? Peter found a hard time believing that.

"You can ask him yourself if you don't believe me," Claire offered. "We realized it last night. No matter how much we get along as friends, there's still no chemistry. It would never work out."

Peter simply sat there, wordless and dumb, not a clue in his intelligent head over what to say. Claire noted his speechlessness, and saved him with a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"And partly," she softly said. "I could never get over how much I wanted you."

Never, in the six years of knowing him, had Claire ever seen Peter actually blush. But she gleefully saw his beige skin redden in the cheeks, and a skewed smile he couldn't control spread across his lips.

Peter reached forward to kiss her again, but a loud roar of sound erupted from the kitchen, stopping him just as his lips brushed against Claire's. He tilted his head towards the door and sat in silence, listening for any telltale signs of reason. Another few thumps and a triumphant yell of "Hiro!" was enough of a clue.

"Hiro's back," Peter breathed, letting his touch drop from Claire's cheek.

"Yeah," Claire acknowledged superfluously, already missing his skin on hers. "So what now?"

Peter swiveled back to her and clasped her hand. "Now we save the world."

And with eyes like those, so full of encouragement and love and the Peter she knew from long ago, how could Claire refuse?


	18. Revelations

**Chapter Seventeen**

"**Revelations"**

The volume level in Niki's living room had already superseded a dull roar by the time Peter and Claire entered. Funny, how six people could make so much noise when they were excited about something. Granted, four of them were men, but none of the motley crew was usually the upbeat type.

"Hey Hiro," Peter said, clapping his everything-but-the-blood brother on the shoulder.

Hiro nodded silently in return. It would be a stoic greeting to anyone else, perhaps even a rude one, but Peter was used to his buddy's constant mellowness. He knew it to be a sign of respect and friendship.

"I returned a woman named Lori Trammel to her home, and gave her instructions to stay protected," Hiro told Peter humbly.

Claire's ears perked up. "Did you just say Lori Trammel?"

Hiro nodded.

"Is she my age, really shy, with brown hair?"

"I think so," Hiro shrugged. "She had a very dangerous power: pheromone manipulation."

There was that word again, Claire thought, perturbed. Micah had used it to describe Peter when the empath went to seduce Betty. "_Maybe he has nice pheromones."_

Mohinder observed her confusion and quickly stepped in to explain. "A pheromone is simply a chemical released by the body to attract a member of the opposite sex, Claire. Their existence in humans is slightly under debate, but it would certainly explain why some otherwise unlikable people have many admirers, or perhaps even why some people are naturally homosexual."

_So Lori can manipulate her pheromones…? _Claire chewed it over. If Lori could control her "mating scent" than she could make boys practically jump her, or repel them all away. And looking back on it, that made the most sense. Lori was raped by Brody Mitchum when Claire and she were only in high school. If the girl was unaware of her power at the time, it could have caused a horrible reaction in Brody, which would have made him resort to rape. And then, once he realized how easy it was, and merely got into the habit of it. _Oh, Lori, _Claire groaned internally. _I'm so sorry. If only we had hung out more, I could have helped you with your power…_

Yet it wasn't right to dwell in the past anymore. If Hiro was talking about the same Lori, than Claire's old friend was still alive, okay, and kicking. That's all that mattered.

While Claire dwelled in her musings, the men were already knee-deep in another power struggle. What a bloody shock. You couldn't get all that testosterone and leadership into one room without there being _some _argument, no matter how much love was between everybody.

"Now that Hiro's back, he can take you and Molly back to Boston," Peter offered Mohinder, snipping the fact down to the bare essentials.

The Indian man blinked and leaned forward, puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"I'm serious, Mohinder. You need to go home and lock your doors till this whole thing blows over."

Mohinder seemed offended, but still was not entirely against the idea. As much as he knew he could be of service, his fatherly instincts ultimately wanted Molly out of the way.

"Fine. You're right," he eventually sighed, not wanting to pursue a losing battle. Plus, as Peter had stealthily found out over the years, the doctor was also very easy to persuade. Even the worst lawyer in the world could convince Mohinder Suresh to buy ice in Antarctica.

"And then I want _you, _Hiro to stay there with them."

Now it was the samurai's turn to sign up for Operation: WTF. "_What_?"

Peter put a hand on Hiro's shoulder again. He said, in a low voice that only Hiro could hear, "Mohinder's smart, but he couldn't last in a fight to save his life. He and Molly need someone to look out for them. Can I trust you to protect them?"

Hiro's lips puckered for a moment, as if he was about to argue, before his morals overcame him. "I suppose you have a point. Molly and Mohinder will be safe with me."

A warm smile appeared on Peter's face. "Thanks, Hiro. For everything."

Hiro bowed his head, accepting Peter's deep gratitude. He was certainly wise enough to know what "everything" entailed. Some things didn't need to be voiced with petty words.

As Peter was making arrangements with his friend from the East, Mohinder and Molly took the opportunity to say their farewells. Suresh stepped over to Sylar, embracing his comrade in a tender hug. If someone had told Mohinder six years ago that the man who killed his father would eventually become someone he accepted, cherished, and loved, he would have sputtered and babbled, as the good doctor usually did when he was flustered.

Neither Mohinder or Sylar wanted to pull away, for both of them had no clue what to say. Sylar was to walk into a battlefield soon, and Mohinder would be like the nervous housewife back at the home front, doors boarded up and confined in a small abode. There was a small chance that this could be the last chance they would ever see each other.

Luckily, a tap on Mohinder's shoulder saved him from his speechlessness. The doctor released Sylar and swiveled gracefully around to meet Niki's son face-to-face.

"Doctor Suresh?" the Sanders boy asked timidly. Mohinder may not have been a behavioral analyst, but he could still sense that the boy was nervous.

"Yes, Micah?"

Micah swallowed and looked across the room to Molly, who was currently hugging Claire. "I'd like to kiss your daughter goodbye, if that's okay with you."

Mohinder and Sylar exchanged glances, each breaking out into heartfelt grins of ivory white teeth. Micah was peering at them in anticipation, clearly fearing the worst, an expression that the young boy seldom wore.

The professor crossed his arms over his chest and turned back to the boy. "I don't see why not," he finally said, and both men could see a weight fluttering off of Micah's shoulders.

"Thanks." Micah grinned, for once like an actual teenager rather than a genius recluse. Mohinder's black eyes followed him as he timidly crossed the room over to Molly Walker Suresh, nudged her in the shoulder, and pressed a chaste kiss of against her lips. Molly responded like any chipper girl at sweet sixteen would during her first real kiss: throwing herself into Micah's arms and squealing with utmost merriment.

Sylar chuckled at Mohinder's giddy expression. "What's gotten into you? You've been watching them constantly all day, and now you just _allow _this."

"Ah, I've realized something, my friend. She's getting to be normal for a few seconds. What more could I ask for?"

xxx

Niki's house breathed a sigh of relief after Mohinder, Molly, and Hiro were gone. Now there were only five bodies to harbor, a quintet that was currently discussing their options around the dinner table.

After an hour or so of snacks and discussion, Peter's entire story was finally told for all to hear, from the time he went to get Hiro's sword, jumping to the seduction of Betty, and everything up to his revival. Claire couldn't help but notice that there was no mention of his hellacious afterlife experience. Heat spread throughout her gut at that notion like a steaming cup of coffee, knowing that Peter had trusted something to her and to her only.

It was almost like old times again, except she could now feel free to kiss him whenever she wanted.

"So, what does the machine _do_?" Niki questioned after Peter's tale was complete. "You chased those schematics all the way across the country. You must have found _something_."

"I can remember what they looked like, but it was all Greek to me," Peter shrugged helplessly. "That's not much help, I'm sorry."

"Can explain what you saw?" Micah suggested. "I could probably understand it. I'm good with machines."

Peter hesitated. "It's kind of hard for me to describe."

"Could you draw it?" Claire put forth desperatly. "Before Kirby Plaza, you drew all the time."

The dark haired man frowned in contemplation. "Fine. It's at least worth a shot. I just need some paper."

Niki rummaged through the token junk drawer before pulling out a paper pad and a Bic pen for him. She gracefully handed him the supplies before sitting down between her son and Sylar once more.

The sheet in front of Peter was utterly blank, except for the thin blue lines organized in perfect little increments from the top of the page to the bottom. It was so neat and _white, _and all arranged, the complete opposite of his mind. Peter's memory was saturated with flashes of complicated schematics, lines, and trigonometry all so jumbled together that he could barely grasp any of it. As soon as he thought he had an idea firmly in his hand, it slipped through his fingertips like the wisp of an all too realistic dream.

_Focus, _he forced upon himself. _You've got third-hand super memory. Use it. _

Peter took a deep breath and closed his eyes, deftly picking up the pen. He uncapped it and pressed the inky ballpoint to the page, but didn't move it yet. His brain was still sorting out all those files, rifling through them and trying to center on one in particular.

He tried to remember that afternoon, the day where he traveled to the Corinthian to retrieve Hiro's sword. Peter focused on the Cloroxy smell of the place, the sterility of the walls, the blinding whiteness of the tiles. He _felt _himself there, almost let the memory eat him up, two inches away from actually _time-traveling_ back.

Pressing fast-forward on his mental TV, Peter followed his path in super-speed as he wandered the halls for a few minutes, entered the gallery, slipped past the woman he now knew as Sophia Linderman, and snuck into the vault.

The next few seconds were the crucial ones that he honed in on in particular. Welding the lock…getting the sword…looking around….blah blah blah…and then! Right then! Peter remembered opening the locker, even recalled the combination that he used to crack it. Everything in his mind's movie screen was brighter and sharper. It was like having an HD television in his head.

As soon as his "Mental Me" pulled out the schematics, Peter pressed pause and everything froze, as he assumed it would. The paperwork was in clear view now, and Peter zoomed in, getting an eyeful of the memory before it dissolved away. He was hardly aware of his hand moving furiously across the legal pad inreal life, Niki's plastic waitress pen nearly scratching through the paper with its fervor. No one in the room had ever seen him paint the future before, but it was kind of like that: complete abandon, total focus on one vision.

Except today he was painting fact, not prophecy, onto the small canvas in front of him.

After a few minutes, Peter let the Bic slide out of his cramped hand. He slumped back into the chair, oddly tired, with a throbbing headache, and looked down upon his handiwork.

His three or so sketches were…rough to say the least. Peter had never claimed to be much of an artist, but he could at least draw out what he remembered once he had a good mental image to work after. And hopefully, smart boy that Niki's son was, Micah Sanders could still understand them.

"Lemme take a look," Micah said, pulling the smudged and worn papers over to his side of the table. From what any of the team could make out, there were three views: a side view, a top view, and a close up of the "upper level." That, however, was about as much as the untrained eye could see. Micah's wisdom spotted nooks and crannies that none of the others could as the cogwheels in his brain dissected the drawings. _If this was a real machine, what would it say to me?_

"Does it make any sense?" called Peter from the sink, where he was currently washing the pen ink off of his hands. Thirty-three years old and he still couldn't write without getting friggin' ink all over himself.

Micah moistened his lips. "A little bit. It clearly needs a _ton _of power, because it's got that huge reactor there, you see? I don't think it runs on nuclear energy though, since that takes a lot of time and even more space to set up. It's probably just a really large electric generator."

"Right," Sylar said slowly. "But what does it _do?_"

Micah looked from his mother, to Peter, to Claire, and back to Sylar again, as if debating whether to break the news or not. "It's designed sort of like a bomb. Except, it's like a _constant _bomb, if that makes any sense. There's this platform in the middle here that takes all the energy and makes it explode out in big bursts. It's a lot like a really big EMP. The only think that doesn't make sense is why it would _keep _going. If it was going to be used as an EMP, then it would only need to burst once. Doing it more then that would be pointless."

"You're sure about all this?" Peter asked pointedly. Micah gave the older man a confident nod.

"Positive."

Niki gave her son a warm hug from behind. "You amaze me everyday, my boy genius," she said in awe, pressing a kiss into Micah's black curls. The teenager pinked in mortification and murmured an insistent "_Mooooom," _at her, under his breath. Niki sighed and pulled away, a victim of a teenager's apathy once again.

Sylar nudged her in the arm. "Cheer up," he commented, smiling shyly. "Even children of great brilliance have their moody phases."

Niki snorted. "Damn right," she agreed, grinning.

Peter's eyes were closed in thought again. "There was stuff in the upper left hand corner too," he recalled. "Words and numbers."

Claire grasped his hand. "Can you make it out?"

Peter tilted his head as creases formed on his forehead. "Um….four, two, four, one, three…no hyphens, in that order. Right above…"

His eyelids rose as the memory suddenly came flooding back. "Right above the word 'Smithsonian.' "

"Smithsonian?" Sylar confirmed in disbelief. "But the Smithsonian isn't a building, it's a _street. _There's a whole row of museums in there. How could Sophia put a machine in there?"

"Unless she put it _under _the museum," Micah pointed out. "But you're right. Which section would it be?"

"Maybe the numbers are an address," Claire said.

"42413," Peter muttered, rubbing his temples. "Is that even _supposed _to mean something?"

Sylar ran the pad of his thumb over his lip in concentration. "Perhaps it is the address. We can look it up online later, I'm sure."

"Back to this machine," Niki steered them on track once more. "What would a big EMP do to everybody?"

"Wipe out every electronic device," Sylar informed her. "Even things run by batteries. It's like a nuclear explosion, except clean."

"But that can't be right," Peter murmured. "It wouldn't be much fun to have an EMP hit Washington, but that's still a little tame for the Lindermans, don't you think?"

"Well, is there anything else you know about the machine that could help?" Claire pressed on, rubbing her forehead. "When Sophia talked to you, did she say anything?"

Peter let out a breath that sounded slightly like a groan as he sat back in his chair, falling back into the past once more. Getting tortured and duped by that odious woman was hardly a memory he wanted to uproot, but for the sake of mankind, he'd bear the burden of reliving it….

"_They're more than just shadows," _Sophia had revealed, pacing the room. _"They're more like…souls, I believe. I know for a fact that my own shadow has quite a temper. Forgive my curiosity, but what can yours do?"_

"_I'm pretty sure it wouldn't burn people," _Peter barked back. In real life, his arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes crinkled with smoldering loathing.

Sophia's smile was devious_. "That would make sense. Deep down, you're weak. Too weak and not angry enough to have your soul scald people with its touch. I, on the other hand, do express the rancor within. But unfortunately for me, and for the plans of my late husband, my shadow is still small. Hardly useful for any large operations."_

She had kneeled down in front of him, getting down to his level like an equal for once. _"But those schematics are the key to fixing that miniscule problem."_

Peter's eyes shot open and a garbled noise of realization came out of his mouth- a mix of "Aha!" and "Oh!" Claire grabbed his arm with her one hand and used to other one to softly rub his shoulder.

"What did you see?" she asked frantically, a tinge of excitement in her voice. After a couple of years at the FBI, despite the warped perspectives there, she had grown rather fond of riddles. Particularly cryptograms, and if Claire was stuck in that career for the remainder of her long life, she probably would have gone into cryptography at one point. This situation was like a big jigsaw puzzle and scavenger hunt in one. Her adopted brother Lyle had done that to her once when they were kids: hidden her last ten or so jigsaw pieces around the house and made her find them before she could finish the puzzle.

The words rushed out of Peter's mouth before he could forget them. "My shadow is small. Hardly useful for large stuff. But the schematics will fix that problem."

The four others exchanged befuzzled looks, and Niki, with thanks from the others, asked, "Um…clarify, please?"

Peter swallowed and relaxed once he had the tidbits of information burned into his brain. "Sophia was complaining about how her shadow is _small. _With what I've seen of Petey, I believe it. The shadows can't get much bigger than we are, and sun angle and stuff probably has something to do with it. But," he waved his hands, flustered, "whatever. She then said that the _schematics _would _fix _that problem. They'd make her shadow _bigger._"

"You said that Sophia's shadow can burn through anything it comes in contact with," Niki said quietly, an oddly mouselike expression on her face. She felt something brush her calf as Sylar shifted his leg to touch hers, but when she looked over at him, his face betrayed no sign of moving at all.

"It can," Peter replied plainly.

"So…Sophia's gonna burn up the Smithsonian?" Claire voiced what the others were thinking, her eyes as big as oranges. "She's gonna destroy _thousands _of years of history?!"

Peter made a small grunting noise that only Sylar heard. His brother frowned and stared up Peter inquisitively, the metal cogwheels in his brain trying to figure out the problem.

"Peter?" he asked. "Is there something you want to add?"

Another indecipherable noise. Peter's face was conflicted, trying to decide whether or not to flash his controversial thoughts.

He met Sylar's piercing gaze from the other side of the table. His brother could see through him like a sheet of plastic wrap, and when Sylar wanted to get something out of him, the watchmaker always won.

"Sophia's not going to blow up the museum!" Peter finally blurted out, roughly rubbing his forehead.

Claire's expression was hurt for a split second, before one of her eyebrows coolly arched up. "How do you know?" she pried, unhappy with Peter's confidence about her incorrectness.

He gave her an apologetic look and her heart lightened, at least enough to listen to his reasoning. "It doesn't make any sense," he proclaimed gently. "The Lindermans don't work that way."

"But, Peter," Sylar pointed out. "The destroying of one of the world's most well known museums, with, as Claire said, years and years of artifacts…that would be a global tragedy. And you've told me that Sophia's husband wanted to create such a catastrophe, that it would ''heal the world' after a few years."

"He wanted to blow up _half of New York!" _Peter exclaimed, his voice growing more stern. "That's my point! This isn't _big_ enough! Sure, some Monets and dinosaur bones will get burnt up, but other than a couple night guards, no one's gonna die! There's nothing entirely irreplaceable in there."

"The Hope Diamond is there, and it's the largest diamond in the world," Niki pointed out. "That's one of a kind."

"A fire wouldn't destroy a diamond, Mom," Micah corrected her. "Unless it was in there for a really long time, and it was some sort of super-hot fire that-,"

"I get it," his mother rolled her eyes. "But there's still original artwork in there and I _know _that will burn."

"But there's prints out there, so it's not entirely lost," Peter reminded her tiredly. "Do you get what I'm saying? You can destroy an Egyptian scroll or a mummy, or a painting from the 1700's, but somewhere out in the world, there are a couple hundred _pictures_ of that painting, and _more _scrolls, and _more _mummies. A human life isn't like that. There's one of me or you or anyone else. Nothing can compare. That's what made Linderman's bomb such a strong plan. He planned on killing _five million _people. _That _is a tragedy. Hell, September Eleventh killed a few thousand and we mourned over that for months.

"Claire's idea is sensible but…" Here, he looked defeated and idealess, not sure who to support or where to go. "Truthfully, I don't think that's something Sophia would do. Her group doesn't just draw out a plan and do it. They _manipulate, _and _hide, _and-," Claire noticed that Peter was starting to gesture wildly, a mannerism that she'd come to smirk kindly at over the years, "-and plan it for years and years at a time. Incinerating a museum? Why doesn't she just start a fire, or plant a _normal _bomb?"

Sylar steepled his fingers hopelessly. "There is some merit to that argument Peter, I'll give you that. But think of the practicality of the situation. There is no way that Sophia's power could go beyond the realms of those museums. If the machine is underground, then her power could only travel vertically. If the machine was above the ground, someone would have noticed it by now."

As much as Sylar was trying to be a peacekeeper, Claire could still sense a verbal brawl brewing between the two brothers.

"Even if we're not sure of what it can do," she declared, "we still need some sort of plan. Micah, Sylar, can you look a little closer at it and try to figure out how it can be destroyed?"

The boy and the amnesiac shared nonchalant looks before nodding at Claire. With a technopath and a man that could see how things worked, _some _answers had to come of this.

"Good," Claire said, smiling a little bit. She liked closure.

Micah turned to Sylar as he stood up, cocking his head towards his Batcave of a room. One of his hands collected Peter's lean-to schematics as he boldly announced, "C'mon. Let's get to work."

xxx

While Sylar and Micah put their heads together to come up with some sort of defense plan, Peter and Claire, each of merely above average intelligence, headed back to Niki's den. They had pretty much dubbed it "their place," and an apt cove it was. For some reason, whether it was the lower floor level or because it was distant from the rest of the house, the room was always silent, save for the sound of the ceiling fan's rhythmic thumping.

Peter and Claire were immersed in each other's warmth now, sprawled out across the couch. Their legs naturally entwined in an almost casual manner, while Claire's upper body curved into Peter's side.

The young man's fingers trailed through Claire's dark locks as she snuggled against his chest. "After this all over…after we're free, and you don't have to run anymore," he remarked mildly, "you should let your blonde hair come back."

Claire adjusted her position so that she had clear view of his face. A perfectly groomed brow was arched above her left eye. "I don't even remember what I looked like with blonde hair," she chuckled grimly. Peter's hand didn't stop its slow travel through her slightly frazzled, but still untangled hair.

"I do," he replied hoarsely. He turned his head, and his lips brushed against her hairline. "It looked great, Claire. You really should think about letting it grow in."

"You know," the young woman brought up as she splayed on top of him, rubbing her hand affectionately on his chest, "that's a really random thing to think about."

Peter shrugged lightly, and Claire could feel the bones and muscles in his shoulder moving under her cheek. "It's just something on the list," he mumbled dismissively.

Claire's quizzical gaze was enough to ask him what the hell he was talking about, without even needing to saying a word.

"When I was dead," he explained wearily, "I kept thinking about stuff in my life that," he paused, "I didn't get to do. Things I didn't get to say. So I sort of made a mental list of everything I wanted to tell people."

The smirk of a cat that'd cornered her feathery dinner crossed Claire's mouth as she sat up on her elbows. "Anything else you want to tell me, then?"

But the doomed bird did not so much as flinch. Instead, he shrugged again, and shamelessly answered, "Yeah, there is. But I'm waiting till the time's right. You just have to trust me."

"Can I ask how many things involve me on the list?" She batted her eyelashes. Peter was a sucker for cow eyes and puppy pouts, as she'd learned over the years.

Peter sighed amiably, and wrapped both arms around her in a tight embrace. "I dunno. Two or three, maybe."

"Only a couple? You've actually been _that _honest with me over the years?"

"Well, they're sort of summaries of lots of little things I want to tell you. If that counts."

Claire rolled her eyes. "Fine. That counts."

Peter only realized that he made her an almost-promise until it was too late to backpedal. In retrospect, he should have kept his mouth shut altogether, even concerning that blonde hair comment. Because that's where this all lead, one seemingly innocent comment snowballing until one of Peter's more subtle operations was blown. Now, all she'd be able to think about was what he kept from her, the two, maybe three confessions locked inside of his iron heart. One wasn't that bad, probably something that could be spilled after a couple laughs and a beer. But the other, a secret so powerful and twisted that neither Sylar nor Hiro even knew…Peter now wondered if he could _ever _tell her.

Or maybe, he could hope that she would forget it and not pressure him, to let him tell her when _he _was ready. Right now, he just needed someone to sit by; to feel the presence of someone who would not scorn him for the facts he knew deep down.

The man felt a soft, feathery material tickle him near the ankle, and his leg twitched reflexively. Claire looked down at his foot, the movement of which had disturbed her comfy position.

"You okay?"

Peter made a carefree noise, and adjusted his leg once more. But as soon as he had laid back and closed his eyes again, there it was- a sensation like spiders creeping up his skin.

He shuddered and sat up, sending Claire careening into the crook of his arm. "Peter, what's _wrong_?" she asked impatiently, not happy in the least bit that his warm body was no longer wrapped around her.

"I keep feeling somethin' on my ankle," he responded, aggravated. As he reached down to lift up his pant and make sure there wasn't something on him, Claire shivered too, collapsing against his chest in ticklish giggles.

"Mmhpph," she grinned. "I think I know who's doing it."

Peter looked around the couch frantically. "What? Who?"

Claire gently grabbed his jaw and guided his field of view to the far wall, where his shadow was mischievously curled up in a rocking chair.

"What do you want?" Peter hollered to it, pulling Claire closer to him with a protective arm.

"Be nice," Claire chided her lover, giving him a maternal smack on the chest.

Peter glared at the world in general, but mostly at Petey. It wasn't that he disliked his shadow, or soul, or whatever the hell they were calling it these days. He was actually quite fond of the thing. It had several useful properties, and as much as Peter tried to act tough most of the time, he still had a soft spot for the cute.

No, Petey was mostly a _burden. _Because of that damn emotional time bomb that just _happened _to take on his likeness, there was no way Peter could mask his feelings anymore. They were exposed for everyone to see via that inky, hyperactive little sloth with Claire's pet name attatched to it.

Peter resisted the urge to groan as Claire sat up and left the comfort of his lap, to go over to Petey's side of the room. Had Peter not been a full grown man, an even worse pout might have set in a long time ago.

Claire leaned up and pressed a sweet kiss to Petey's cheek. His skin felt different to her than a human's…like silk and air weaved into a tapestry of shadowflesh. The silhouette, rather than becoming nervous, was oddly stern all of a sudden. It stroked Claire's hair a couple times with tender care, but the girl could sense something amiss in Petey's form.

Aha, she realized, as she spotted Peter himself, the host of emotions that fed out to the shadow, looking skyward in annoyance. The man was already missing the warm, shapely figure against his side.

Claire caught his moodiness and rolled her eyes before plopping down in his lap.

"That thing has a mind of its own," Peter commented sullenly, still glaring at his shadow.

Claire brushed the hair off his forehead and peered at him kindly. "No he doesn't. He's just the good parts of you." _Beat. _"And some of the bad."

"Sophia said he was my soul." Peter slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "Do you believe in stuff like that?"

"Sure," Claire said. "Don't you?"

Peter waited a long time before replying with, "I believe in an afterlife don't I?"

"Mmm," Claire purred absently, not sure what to say to that. Instead, she decided to respond with a lesser perplexing question. "Where do you think I'll end up?"

Peter snorted. "Heaven, no contest."

Claire frowned. "You think?"

His calloused fingertips rubbed against her cheek, a feeling that sent a sensual shiver of pleasure down Claire's spine. Before Peter, Claire had never been with a guy over the age of twenty. But the _man_ beneath her felt so much more different, in an entirely more gratifying way. She was oddly drawn to the scratchy feel of stubble tickling her jaw when they kissed, or the hands of a hard working hero, rough with labor, caressing her skin. He felt _older, _and that sent even more curious signals of lust creeping into her brain.

"I _know_ you will," Peter husked against her lips. "Heaven was made for people like you."

It was a fluffy statement that by some stroke of sheer luck managed to sound seductive and alluring coming out of his mouth, as opposed to the ever-feared "cheesy." Plus, the spicy taste of his lips that followed his sentiment, enveloping Claire in their one-of-a-kind flavor, won him some points as well.

The last time they kissed had resulted in an explosion of desire. This time was more private though, perhaps even more _intimate. _Though Peter's tongue did manage to slip its way past Claire's blush-colored lips, their pace was still leisurely and languorous. They were simply two people, alone in the world together, wanting nothing more than to be in solely in each others' company for a short while.

A loud crash sounded behind them as Petey the shadow tripped onto a stack of CD's, knocking them all down. Claire's mouth separated from Peter's as her eyes scanned over the mild damage.

"You know…" Claire said with a giggle, looking over at Petey's dazed, lovesick form, "you're never gonna be able to keep anything from me with him around."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Tell me about it," he grumbled, and pulled her down to kiss him again.

xxx

Some while later, the boy geniuses had returned to the kitchen to lay out their findings, which were surprisingly large. Peter's eyebrows arched at the spiral notebook full of scribbles and ideas that Sylar flopped down onto the table in front of him.

Micah started things off on a frank foot. "It's not a bomb."

"We're not even sure _what _to call it," Sylar added apprehensively. "Sophia has her work cut out for her on this. I have no clue how they started their designs for it."

"Did you figure out what exactly it _does_?" Peter interjected.

Micah Sanders flipped open the composition book and pointed to a crude sketch. "This is our guess. It pretty much just confirms what we thought. Sophia's going boom."

Peter took in the details of the black and white drawing, of the female shaped figure standing in the middle of an explosion of energy. She looked to be gripping to a metallic ball in the middle of the platform, squiggly lines representing the EMP-like burst emitted from her body.

"It reminds me of when I exploded in New York," Peter muttered.

"I think that's what inspired her to make this machine," Sylar nodded. "The energy from the bottom reactor flows into the platform and travels_ through _her. She's found a way to give her ability that power, potentially giving her shadow a larger surface area."

"Which would mean Sophia's ability could obliterate the whole building," Niki said from the island in the middle of the room. "Or even the entire block."

"Everything would be ruined," Claire whispered. She studiously ignored the light shaking of Peter's head as he forced himself not to argue with their notions again. "It would happen _instantly_."

"There's some good news," Sylar mentioned weakly, rubbing the skin underneath his watch. "We've deduced that Sophia's power is emitted from the machine. But if she's not there to channel the energy, most likely, nothing will happen."

"So if we keep Sophia away from it," Peter said, "then we'll be fine?"

"Well," Micah admitted, "we don't know how specific the design of the machine is. It could amplify her power alone, or it could work the same way with _any_ power. So we don't want a risk of someone worse than Sophia coming along and using it."

"Basically, we need to destroy it," Sylar flatly confirmed.

"Listen," Claire abruptly stood up, a diplomatic masquerade painted on her face. "What we _really _need to get to Washington D.C to take any of this further. We'll need to be there anyway to stop the explosion."

Her two comrades nodded, while the Sanders' watched on expressionlessly.

Claire continued. "I even think we should talk to my dad. He knows Sophia, and she's the reason he's been enacting all the mutant laws. He's being threatened."

"Sophia said something about that," Peter remembered, staring off at the wall as though his memory was projected upon it. His tone darkened. "She said you were her bargaining chip."

Claire nodded solemnly. "It's why he put me in the FBI. They made a deal. If Sophia and her daughter Elisa could keep me safe, Nathan would do whatever they told him. So they made him start all the bar-coding laws and stuff." Her eyes averted, full of pain. "I guess it's sort of my fault this whole thing ever started."

She felt a strong hand slip into hers and grasp it with strength and encouragement. Peter tugged on her arm a little, beckoning her to sit down again, as he covered their interlocked hands with his other palm.

"This is _not _your fault," he said sternly. "Sophia is responsible for everything that's happened. She likes ruining lives; I think she gets more of a thrill out of that then healing the world like her husband tried to do."

He directed his next words to the others, though his loving clasp on Claire's hand didn't break. "Claire's right. We need to get to D.C. It's the only place we can get any answers."

Sylar glanced out of the dingy kitchen window, absorbing the pinkish sunset on the horizon. "Do you think we can be packed by dark?" he asked.

Peter glanced down at his watch, the hour hand impaling the "L" in "SYLAR."

"If we rush."

xxx

There was a ring of ever-so-faint clouds around the moon that night, illuminated by lunar beams.

The late scientist Carl Sagan once said that there are more stars in the universe than there are grains of sand on the Earth. As Sylar stared at the nightrise, he hardly doubted that statement. Niki's house was far away from the glow of Vegas, and out here in the desert, every star shone bright like it was their first times on stage.

Sylar could hear car doors being opened and closed behind him, the distant hollering of voices every now and then, and, when he _really _listened, music from downtown Vegas, ten miles away. He felt a strap of weaved leather, the handle of his suitcase, burning the inside of his hand as the weight pulled his arm down, and he felt the warmth of a petite body form beside him, watching him as he got lost in the blackness of the sky. Claire didn't touch him, but still joined him in his star gazing, the Big Dipper reflected in her pupils.

"Makes you feel small, doesn't it?" she broke the silence.

Sylar nodded without so much as a glance down at her. "Yes. They do."

He heard footsteps coming towards them of a lead footed man, and they were approaching rapidly. It had to be Peter, Sylar surmised. Every time his brother walked around the house, the whole place vibrated. Which, he could never quite work out, 'cause Peter hardly weighed 155 pounds. Some people were just stompers, even if they couldn't help it.

"Hey," Peter said breathlessly, slowing from his brief jog over to them. "Car's all packed. We're ready to go."

_Indeed_, Sylar noted. The headlights of the rented Versa were already on.

Nicole Sanders was waiting over by the SRV, an arm loosely wrapped around Micah's waist. A few years ago, it would have been his shoulders, but her son was over her own height now. Also, a few years ago, they would have been farther away from the door, but Micah's blinking ankle bracelet prevented that.

When the party of five met at the front of the house, Niki immediately left the side of her son to embrace Peter goodbye.

"I don't know how to thank you," he said into her ear.

Niki pulled back, but still kept her hands on his shoulders as she replied, "You can let me come with you. I know I can help."

"You already have," Peter assured her. "And you need to stay with Micah. We got ourselves into this-,"

Claire and Sylar gave him moderate glares, and Peter good-naturedly rephrased his statement.

"_I _got us into this, and it's my responsibility to get us out."

Niki's smile wasn't entirely persuaded, but she still respected his wishes with a motherly kiss on the forehead. As Micah took her place to shake Peter's hand in farewell, Niki moved on to hug Claire.

"It was nice to finally meet you, baby girl," she told Claire warmly. "You keep an eye on Peter for me, okay?"

Claire winked. "Don't worry. I have him on a short leash."

Niki grinned back as Peter glowered at his tiny girlfriend.

Last in the line was Sylar, who stood uncomfortably off to the side. Niki had to stand on her tiptoes just to hug him, and the clammy, geeky side of Sylar disappeared for a second as his mind just said _oh forget it. _He wrapped his arms firmly around her waist and lifted the woman up, so she finally met him at eye level.

Niki laughed merrily, toes pointed like a ballet dancer's, even in her high heels. Sylar resisted the urge to spin her around- but he had no excuse logged in his mental database for that- and simply hugged her back, never having been that close to a woman before.

As the flowery scent of her shampoo wafted into his nostrils, Sylar suddenly became aware of her nails digging lightly into his shoulders, her thighs grazing his, her breasts against his chest. Warm butterflies tingled throughout his skin, making the hairs on his arm stand upright with electricity. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, but one Sylar was still utterly unfamiliar with.

He nearly dropped the poor woman in his haste to put her down, to make that foreign, tingly feeling stop.

Sylar coughed. "Um…'bye Niki."

"Bye yourself," she beamed. "Oh! And Sylar…" She stood up on her toes once again, putting her hands on his shoulders for leverage. Her lips grazed his ear as she whispered something to him, unheard by any of the others. Niki's eyes danced with mystery as she drew back and smirked at him, before turning back into herself: quiet, reserved, and motherly.

Claire and Peter exchanged knowing smiles. There was no way Sylar wasn't spilling about _this _on the drive home.

Micah was about to give Claire his own send-off, but Peter caught the boy lightly on the arm as he turned to walk away. Sanders blinked at the man, more in innocent incomprehension than fear or misunderstanding.

Peter pulled Micah a ways away from the others. "Hey, uh…there's something I want to tell you."

Micah continued to stare across at Peter, waiting for the big reveal. Peter's hands were suddenly on the teenager's shoulders, clutching with desperation and intensity.

"I made a promise to you, Micah. I promised you that I'd kill Sophia, because of what she did to DL." When Micah didn't reply, Peter inhaled deeply and squeezed the kid's shoulders even tighter. "I didn't keep my promise last time. Stuff got in the way, and-,"

"Its fine," Micah muttered, looking down. "I know, she tricked you, and-,"

"It doesn't matter," Peter countered with firmness. "I should have done what I went in there to do. I screwed it up the first time." He leaned forward and lowered his voice so only Micah could hear, before darkly vowing, "I'm not gonna break my promise this time, Micah. She isn't going to get away from me alive, even if it kills me to take her down."

Micah Sanders was speechless for the first time in a long while. Whenever talk of DL came up, Micah almost always retreated into voluntary silence. But he hardly ever was he quite this dumbstruck and humbled.

"Th-thank you," the boy stammered, having nothing else in his huge vocabulary that seemed honorable enough to say.

Peter smiled bitterly. "Don't thank me. She isn't dead yet."

With one last press to Micah's shoulder, his finally broke away, leaving Micah free to continue what he was doing before, as if never interrupted. The embrace that Claire gave him seemed much more hollow than in normally would have, for Peter's words still rung in his ears. _I'm not gonna break my promise this time, Micah. _

Whether this oath would indeed come true, Micah didn't know. However, he was _certain _that Peter had definitely grown on him in the past couple days.

After all the hugs and kisses and bittersweet bon voyages had finally been exchanged, the trio of Peter, Claire, and Sylar opened the doors of their rental, all feeling like the car was strangely foreign to them. Odd that, seeing as they'd just driven it yesterday. But the past forty-eight hours had felt like a lifetime and a half rather than two days, almost like Niki's house was in an entirely different reality.

Niki waved, her slender fingers graceful as they wisped about the night air. "Good luck," she called sincerely, her other hand tightening its grip on Micah's waist. Sylar and Claire waved back as Peter gave a loose salute, before they climbed into the Nissan and finally closed the doors.

The individual taillights of the Versa blended into one blob of crimson as Niki's eyes flooded with salty wetness. The feint red light of her son's ankle bracelet, which blinked in silence out of the corner of her eye, was also blurry from her tears.

And as she watched her triad of friendship and protection drive off into the distance, all she could hope was that the next time she saw them, there would still be_ three _bodies waiting with open arms.

xxx

_Chapter Eighteen: Moses and Ramses…. soon_

xxx


	19. Moses and Ramses

**Sorry that it's taken me so long to update! The holidays and whatnot put a damper on my urge to write. However, I'm back and kickin' in the new year and hope to have this story totally done by Valentine's Day. Only your reviews can fuel me on, so please keep the comments coming and enjoy the rest of the story! )**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this except Sophia. Cept' my friend came up with Sophia's power.

xxx

**Chapter Eighteen**

"**Moses and Ramses"**

"Okay, spill," Claire immediately demanded of Sylar, as soon as Niki's house was out of view. "What did she say to you?"

Sylar's brow knitted and he shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. "What? She just said goodbye."

Peter glanced sideways at his brother, clearly just as unconvinced as the slender girl lounging in the backseat. Sylar's poker face was on full blast though, every muscle turned to stone as he looked back and forth between Claire and the driver.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he continued stiffly. "Niki was simply being nice."

"_Really _nice" Peter said under his breath. Even the desert night didn't quite mask the smirk on his face, but Sylar didn't push it by snarking back.

There was a two day drive ahead of them, which wasn't particularly inviting. But as Peter sternly reminded them, "Sylar can't teleport." His brother tried to protest, saying that _justthisonce_ he'd be okay. But Peter wouldn't hear any of it, and would gladly drive two straight days by himself before risking his dear sibling's life.

As the dark mountains and galaxies flashed by the car, Peter's demands repeated in Sylar's head like a broken record. It was an excuse he'd heard many a time before. _"No way are you coming with. You're the only brother I've got," _Peter'd casually reply on a good day, and that would usually be the end of it. Or sometimes, when Peter was in a more annoyed and busy mood, he'd say "_I don't have time to take care of your ass today. There's a new jail in Cairo and an execution in Fresno that I have to intercept before midnight." _

Sylar used to assume that Peter was simply a limelight hog that wanted to do everything himself (and perhaps that was slightly true) but there was more to it. Peter was very much a martyr, willing to throw himself at the barrel of a machine gun to save those he didn't even know. _He's only trying to protect me, _Sylar internally sighed. Even if Sylar _could _teleport without nearly going comatose, things probably wouldn't be much different.

So for the next thirty straight hours, the unlikely trio was confined to the inside of the small SRV, the only stops being for bathroom breaks or food. The mutual agreement among them was to live by the letters A-S-A-P on terms of getting to Washington. With no idea when Sophia planned on activating her machine, they simply couldn't afford to waste any time.

xxx

The sound of Elisa Thayer's stilettos had haunted Nathan's dreams for years. He could always tell when it was _her _coming from that harsh stabbing sound rather than a soft clip-clop. The razor-sharp rapping of her heels alone was enough to give the President a pucker factor like a punch to the gut. (That is, pucker factor as in the term Nathan learned in the military. Referring to a nervous tightening of certain male reproductive organs).

A small folder was on his desk, carefully hidden under mounds of presidential paperwork. Inside the folder was the Mutant Purification Act, which he wholly intended to feed to the shredder by the end of the day.

But the silhouette in the door wanted it signed. Now.

Agent Thayer walked briskly to Nathan's desk, a clipboard in one arm. Nathan stood up from his chair and put his hands firmly on his hips, trying to look open as well as intimidating. It was pretty much useless with a damn fierce woman like Elisa, but he took a vow to uphold the honor of his country in any situation. She wasn't going to walk over him without a fight.

Elisa held her arms out expectantly. "You do have something for me, don't you?"

Nathan shrugged his shoulders in a slightly vulnerable fashion, though his insides burned with focus and strength. "I-I need more time."

The redhead slammed the clipboard on the table, making Nathan jump. "What the _hell _do you mean by 'you need more_ time_?"

"Mrs. Thayer, please," he calmly replied with a bit of bite in his tone. "I promise it won't make a difference. No one is going to interfere with your mother's plans, except possibly Peter Petrelli. And even if we do get this bill released _right now, _that still won't be enough to kill him in time. So…_relax._ Let the machine do its business, and you'll have all the time in the world after that._"_

Nathan was allowed to be smug for a grand two seconds in his attempt at bullshitting the FBI agent to pieces. But once he started to see a self-satisfied smirk tug on the woman's shapely mouth, his confidence collapsed like a lead balloon.

"Maybe you have a …slight point, Nathan. Peter Petrelli is dead, after all," Elisa said coyly. A rush of blood unexpectedly surged through the President's ears, temporarily deafening him.

"Dead?" Nathan asked, stunned, now clearly weakened. "How is that…where did…?"

Elisa coolly crossed her arms. "Vegas. He was shot by Mother after she slipped him TRS. He went out like a light."

Nathan gingerly rubbed his temples, trying to contemplate his handler's words. The past four years had raged a burning war of hellfire on Peter and Nathan's relationship, but Nathan still didn't wish _death _on his estranged foster brother. Especially when Claire was in Peter's protective custody. But with the young man presumed dead, Claire was left unguarded from by the Linderman women.

"Where is he?" Nathan finally asked.

Elisa blinked. "What?"

"Where's _the_ _body_?" Nathan restated, his teeth starting to grit in frustration.

The lady's confidence subsided as she grudgingly admitted, "We went to cremate him, but someone intercepted the guards. We lost him."

To Nathan's surprise, his hopes immediately soared. "Then how are you sure that he's still dead?"

Elisa's hands clenched, sharp fingernails digging into her palms. "There is no possible way he could recover from what she did to him. He was, and is _dead, _Nathan."

Whether or not Elisa Thayer had the ability to read minds, Nathan wasn't certain. However, he _was _sure that said woman was good at seeing all the nooks and crannies in a situationfor the next thing she added was, "Just like you said: with him out of the way, launching our plan will be easy as pie. And on top of _that,_ I think we'll be able to find Claire awful soon too."

Her smile didn't even try to wear its usual dancing façade of helpfulness. Elisa's face was full of crazed delight that froze Nathan to the core.

"So you just think on that bill, Nathan," she said wisely, picking up her clipboard from his desk. "Let it come to you."

Her orange hair whipped behind her as she stomped out of the Oval Office. Nathan's legs almost collapsed beneath him as soon as Elisa was out of sight, and he winded up in the desk chair with his head in his hands.

He had everything planned out like a Mona Lisa of dominos, with one trigger launching the whole works. Nathan assumed that if he could postpone the signing of the bill, Elisa and Sophia would in turn postpone the plan. Peter had been his ultimate weapon. Even though he subtly suggested that they go ahead, he knew that if he pulled out the "Peter" card, that would be sure to scare them away.

But Peter was dead, leaving Nathan unarmed and easy to be kicked while he was down. It wasn't just about _him_ either. If Peter was dead, then who would keep Claire safe? Who would protect Claire from the bill intended to stop her indestructible heart? Who would protect both Nathan and Claire from being once again wrangled into the labyrinth of threats and blackmail that the Linderman women had crafted?

The president's fatherly instincts started to burn from the inside out. Whether or not he was safe didn't matter. He had to find Claire, to warn her, the do whatever it took to protect his daughter. Nathan had dabbled in affairs that he shouldn't have long ago, and was now paying his penance. But Claire didn't deserve to bear the sins of her father, and his father before that. God help him: neither Elisa nor Sophia would be laying a finger on his Claire.

President Petrelli reached for the phone.

xxx

It was sunrise in Washington D.C. when a tired Nissan Versa entered the city limits. Claire was curled up in the backseat with Petey, slightly snoozing as the two older men were awake in the front. Her head was on the shadow's lap, and a sheet of brown hair lay over her face, fluttering gently as she breathed. The dark silhouette of Petey was portraying something that resembled sleep, sitting upright with his head leaning back against the top of the seat. His smoky black hand methodically stroked Claire's hair as if he was petting a cat, while his other hand remained entwined with hers.

Peter himself was still driving, and his eyes laid upon her via the rear-view mirror. He could only absorb her feline-like form for a few seconds before having to turn his attention back to the road, but even that was enough to bring a barely-there smile to his lips.

"I wonder what the Library of Congress is like," Sylar commented out of the blue. "It probably smells wonderful, like leather and paper that's been touched too many times."

His right temple rested against the doorside window, a slender finger tracing his lips as he became lost in thought once more. Peter stared at his brother as though seeing him in a new light, taking in all those dark hairs and facial angles that were shared between them. But the minds which rested behind their respective eyes were polar opposites. Peter had never been _dumb, _but Sylar's sheer intelligence put him to shame at times. The driver briefly put himself back at Kirby Plaza, remembering the devious villain who had telekinetically choked him, hit him over the head with a parking meter, and when Peter finally got a leg up, the man whom he had punched mercilessly into a pulp. He always just assumed that Sylar was a ruthless, mindless killer, but seeing his brother _now…_

He almost felt sorry for the man he fought six years before. Maybe Sylar's brilliance had been underappreciated and the lonely young man simply snapped. Maybe he was trying to prove himself to someone by becoming supernatural, forced to be morally grey just to look decent in another's harsh eyes. All those maybes shaped the mold of who Sylar was, yet neither of them had any clue to what the mold was made out of.

"Yeah," Peter finally replied, reflecting back to his few times in the Library. "It kind of does. I don't like it though, but you probably would. You're into weird antique stuff like that."

Sylar snorted good-naturedly. "Yes. The past does seem to intrigue me."

Peter focused on the road again for a second, making sure not to miss the upcoming exit into the city, but then turned his attention to Sylar once more. His brother's eyes were glazed and abandoned, and Peter felt his heart break slightly. Three years ago, when he had confronted Sylar out in the Arizona desert, he reeled the man into his folly with promises of identity and a seemingly instant cure to amnesia.

In all the time they had spent together, Sylar still knew nothing about himself. There wasn't a day that went by that Peter didn't feel guilty about his lack of answers. They didn't have to go through records or anything. He could have used Hiro's power a long time ago to go back and see who Sylar was. At least get the poor man's _name_, for God's sake.

But he had been afraid of what he would find. Or at least, that was his excuse. The hard truth was that he'd been so caught up in saving the world and bedding damsels and curing his own problems that he hardly spared a thought for dear Sylar. But now that the most realistic possibilities were laid out in front of him, he was starting to become _really _curious. What made Sylar…tick?

"I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise," Peter throatily said, his fingers gripping the steering wheel in a tight chokehold. Sylar looked over at him with heavily-lidded eyes, a thick brow arched in confusion.

"Which one?"

Peter let that one slide. "Very funny." Yet, he took it well because he knew he deserved it. "I'm talking about the first one, back when you met me in the desert. I promised I would help you find out who you are and I never did a damn thing."

He could see Sylar recalling that day in his head, the crow's feet deepening around his eyes.

"I remember," Sylar nodded slowly. "But it's fine, honestly. There are some things I'd like to know: my age, my parents, my name, of course. Yet, other things…what if we were to stumble across something even more unpleasant than we already know?"

"It's a risk," Peter admitted. "That's why I haven't time traveled yet. But I really wish…" He paused and pretended to study the highway some more, while searching for the words. "I dunno. I guess I just wish I knew why you are the way you are. Like, how different were you, and why did you do all those awful things. I just don't see it, Sylar. I don't understand how someone like you could _do _that."

"Tell me about it," Sylar softly responded, turning back to the window.

"I'm not gonna let it go again," Peter firmly continued. "I really do want to help you this time."

"Peter," the amnesiac tiredly sighed, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Believe me. You already have."

xxx

"My daughter will _not _be used as a tool, Nathan!"

"If we just could talk about this reasonably-,"

"No! There is absolutely no discussing it!"

Suresh's thumb hovered over the "End Call" button, before Nathan's pleading voice exploded out of the phone's earpiece again.

"Wait, wait, wait! Suresh!"

Mohinder's hand tightened angrily around the phone before he resentfully brought it back to his ear.

"_What?"_

The Indian man could hear Nathan take a deep breath on the other end of the line. It sounded to him like a crackling _whoosh_ of air through the phone.

"I'm begging you, Mohinder. I can't do this without you."

"And why should I help you?" Mohinder bitterly replied, his mouth a grim slash. "You're the reason we're all in hiding…why the entire scientific community has utterly scorned me!"

"Just listen," Nathan desperatly implored. "I know you don't want Molly to be used. But I don't what _my daughter _to be used either. If you don't help me, they're gonna find her before I do, and keep holding her hostage."

A frustrated noise came out of the back of Mohinder's throat. He didn't fancy Nathan Petrelli, but Claire had endeared him quite a lot in their brief meeting.

Nathan was still rambling. "Sophia Linderman and her daughter are both responsible for this, and for every law that I've passed. But I have a plan to end all of this for good, and I want Claire to be safe and out of the way. If you get Molly to tell me where Claire is, I can send someone out to protect her. That's all I'm asking for." He paused before finally resorting to begging, his voice going up an octave. "_Please." _

Mohinder bit back a groan, a brown-skinned hand running roughly through his dark ringlets. As he was lost in his thoughts, his teenage daughter suddenly wisped through the doorway. Molly was quite good at pretending that she hadn't heard the entire conversation already, but her foster father still didn't believe her act for a second.

"Hold, please," he said briskly into the mouthpiece of the phone, before putting Nathan on mute.

Molly looked up at him innocently. "What's up?"

"What should I do, Molly?" he moaned, straddling one of their kitchen chairs. The Indian man buried his face in his hands. "What do _you _want to do?"

Molly crossed the room and placed her hands over his. "I want to help Peter, Claire, and Sylar."

_Damn, _Mohinder thought. He was afraid of that. Not because he wanted anything less, but because Nathan was obviously tugging at their weak spots. And Molly was an innocent girl with a heart of gold, who'd do _anything _to help a friend.

"There are other ways to help," Mohinder weakly insisted. "That man on the phone is the reason you're bar-coded, Molly. He's the reason for _everything _and you actually want to help him?"

Molly's face matured for a split second into one of a grown woman. "I'm not helping _him," _she sternly corrected Mohinder. "I want to help our_ friends_."

Her hand reached the phone faster than Suresh's did, and she deftly depressed the hold key. "Nathan?"

Nathan didn't bother being offended by her lack of formality. Heaven knew, he deserved it. "Yes? Miss Walker?"

"Claire's getting close to Washington D.C. She's in a rental, a blue Nissan Versa, outside mile marker 108. Peter's driving."

There was a momentary pause, and Molly barely heard Nathan choke, "P-Peter? Are you sure?"

A bewildered frown settled on the girl's lips. "Yes."

A sigh of relief. "I just…I was told…" Nathan abruptly stopped, and Molly could see him in her mind, rubbing his forehead to clean history's slate. The subject was then totally different as he said, with utmost sincerity, "That helps me a lot, Molly, thank you. And thank your father for me, too."

"When you find them, keep them safe," Molly quietly demanded. There was yet another awkward silence between them. When Molly peeked in on him with her ability, she saw that his face was blank, his eyes staring straight ahead at the wall.

He finally replied, "I'll try my best," before lowering his hand and putting the phone back into its cradle.

xxx

"Should I take the tunnel or the bridge?" Peter asked as he drove the Versa over the industrial bunny hills of the B-W Parkway.

"The bridge looks nice," Sylar replied, gazing up fondly at the technicolored suspension bridge that crossed the river.

"Take the tunnel. It's more discreet," yawned a small voice from the backseat. "And go ahead and get out a dollar to pay the toll, too."

Peter looked back at Claire and beamed upon her, oblivious to what she'd just said. His love's hair was frazzled and her eyes blinked to clear the fog from her vision. Petey was gone, most likely slinking around on the floorboards somewhere until it was safe to come out again.

"Hey," Peter said softly with his trademark boyish smile.

Sylar smacked the back of Peter's headrest, bringing him down to Earth. "Eyes on the road, will you? I don't feel much like eating a stop sign today."

Peter did as he was told, but not without a few irritable grumbles under his breath. There was silence among the triad as he changed lanes to head towards the underwater roadway. And, just as Claire had exposited, there was a long row of odious, inescapable toll booths blocking off the entrance to the tunnel.

"There's a toll?" he gaped.

"Did you hear a word I said?" Claire rolled her eyes. "It's not like this tunnel paid for itself."

"Yeah, but how long has it been here?" Peter bit back.

Claire shrugged. "Fifteen years, at least. It's pretty old."

"Fifteen years and they _still _haven't paid it off?!"

"Oh, Peter. Do you _ever_ stop complaining?" Claire's voice held more weariness than malice as she dug into her pocket and tossed a crumbled dollar bill onto the dashboard. "Happy?"

Peter stared at the bill blankly, before plucking it off the dash and handing it back to her. "Don't worry about it," he muttered, already making towards his own wallet.

Claire watched him closely as he removed one of the few dollars that was in his weathered leather wallet. It never really sunk into her that yes, Peter Petrelli, who had grown up in a mansion with two socialite parents, was actually poor now. She was certain he had a trust fund somewhere that got unlocked after his father's death, but after all the warrants for his arrest and hands he'd gone through over the years, she wasn't sure what had happened to it. Perhaps Nathan still had it lying around somewhere, and it was preserved. She'd have to remember to ask her father about it when things weren't so crazy.

"Let's hope they don't recognize us," Peter said gravely, pulling up to the booth window. But luckily for them, the attendant was a blonde college chick with an earbud in one ear and a Bluetooth in the other. She compliantly took Peter's money through the window and waved him through, all while keeping up a conversation with Sally Whatsername and bopping to Paramore.

Peter wiped an imaginary bead of sweat from his forehead as he carried on.

It was an awfully short tunnel for a buck's pay, and not exactly a sight for sore eyes either. But at the very least, it was a little less crowded then the bridge, which was totally bumper to bumper. Peter managed to weave them through the traffic with relative ease, and the dirtied tiled walls of the underwater tunnel passed by them in a silenced blur.

The loud melody of a car horn being slammed sounded behind them, but they took hardly noted it. It was D.C. in the morning; there were bound to be lots of pissed people who hadn't had their coffee yet.

But when the same noisemaker, a black Lincoln Towncar, lightly rear-ended their Versa, well…that was sort of hard not to miss.

"What's goin' on with this guy?" Peter murmured, glancing at the rear-view mirror. Sylar looked over his shoulder and through the back windshield. What met his sight was a broad shouldered man in sunglasses in the driver's seat of the Lincoln Towncar, with a thin, dark-skinned man in the passenger seat.

"It looks serious, Pete," Sylar advised his sibling. "Pull over."

"No, they probably work for Sophia," Peter snapped, his foot pressing down harder on the gas pedal. "God, this is exactly what happened to Nathan and Heidi after we tried to turn Linderman into the D.A."

He increased their speed and changed lanes, abandoning the use of a turn signal entirely. A few bystanding drivers honked their horns in displeasure at him but, Peter reassured himself, _they'll get over it. _

"Peter," Claire warned him. She clutched onto the headrests of Sylar and Peter's seats for balance. "If you crash this car, I swear…"

"I'm not gonna crash," he barked back. "I just gotta get out of this stupid tunnel and then I can-,"

The Towncar advanced at breakneck speed, ramming into them from behind with five times more force than before. Sylar's palms hit the windshield to stop his momentum, and Claire nearly ended up in the front seat had it not been for her seatbelt.

"Son of a bitch," Peter gritted out as he tried to steer the vehicle back into an actual lane. "Hold on, guys."

He slammed his foot on the gas, and his comrades watched anxiously as the speedometer crossed the eighty, the ninety, and finally the one-hundred mile-per-hour mark.

And they assumed that a Versa's speedometer going up to one-twenty was someone's idea of a joke.

_It's a miracle we haven't hit anyone, _Claire thought. But when she looked closer at the tunneled landscape and cars flashing by them, she noticed that every time they nearly hit someone, the obstacle casually scooted out of the way. _Mmhmm. Telekinesis. _

They saw the light at the end of the tunnel (literally), and Peter slowed down slightly as daylight finally bathed their car. "Did we lose them?" he asked, going too fast to look over his shoulder.

Claire and Sylar did the job for him. At first, there was no one to be seen behind them. Just the exit of the tunnel and toll booths on the other side of the road. But after a few seconds, the midnight Lincoln Towncar emerged from the darkness, gaining on Peter, Claire, and Sylar with frightening speed.

"They're still behind us," Claire breathed. Her eyes were glued to the rapidly approaching Towncar, the black jaguar of an enemy that they couldn't seem to escape. And what if Peter was right about their motives? Her heart pounded loudly in her chest, threatening to burst out of her ribcage. If those were Sophia's men, then they'd be knocked out and taken, and then most likely led to their death chambers…

However, when her gaze fell upon the man in the passenger seat, her face screwed up into one of confusion. _Marty? _

There was no mistaking it. That was definitely Marty Benedict, Nathan Petrelli's right hand man since day one. Claire could spot Marty a hundred miles away because of the lawyer's tacky aviator shades that engulfed his dark-skinned face.

"Peter!" she shouted, turning back towards the front of the Nissan. "You've got to stop!"

He shot her an astounded gawk. "_What? _But then they'll catch us!"

"They don't work for Sophia," she hurriedly explained, clutching his shoulder in demand to be heard. "I think they work for Nathan!"

"Like that's much better," Peter growled, not slowing his pace down from seventy at all.

"He can help us! He cares about me," Claire desperatly implored. "Peter, _please. _You don't have to trust him, but at least trust _me_."

There was a long moment of hesitation as Peter's gaze locked with the wide-eyed young woman's. Cerulean orbs, filled with the salt of the earth and the hope of a saint, begged him without words. He gaped for a few seconds, an internal war raging in his gut, before he finally covered her hand with his.

"Okay, Claire."

Peter slowed the Versa to a tame forty-five mph and flipped on the hazard lights as a signal to the strangers. Claire, who looked into the windshield of their pursuers, saw the driver nod in acknowledgement.

The men in the black car followed Peter's lead, slowing down but still continuing to trail the Versa. Peter scanned the landscape of rural D.C, searching for a safe, though public place for them to meet face to face. Eventually, he pulled into the parking lot of a Wal-Mart, swerving the car into the farthest possible space away from the store itself.

The Lincoln parked a few spaces down. The moment Peter and Sylar saw the engine of the rival car power down and the lights cut off, they moved, pushing open their doors and rushing out of the Versa.

Peter opened the door to the backseat. "C'mon," he beckoned, holding out a hand for her to help herself up with. As soon as she was out of the car, Claire was pulled to his chest in a tight embrace, with Sylar hovering closely behind her. It was almost as if the brothers were making a human barrier to protect her, even if they didn't think twice about taking such a stance. She didn't know whether to be warmed by it, or aggravated.

A pile of secret service men exited the backseat. Their guns were all drawn, but still directed away from Peter and his friends. The last man to step out of the car was the lawyer Claire knew as Marty, with his short dark hair and hideously tacky glasses all standing proud.

"What do you want?" Peter gruffly demanded. Claire felt the vibrations from his chest rock against her body as he held her to him with a protective arm.

Marty brought up a palm in truce. "Just stay calm. We're not here to hurt you. We're here to help."

"Help with what?" Peter said, loosening his grip on Claire.

Marty lowered his hand and took a deep breath before confessing, "The Linderman situation."

Peter's smoldering eyes seared quizzically into Marty's blue-tinted aviator shades. "What if we don't need your help?" he asked plainly, though without much anger. His body language and expression showed a man contemplating his options.

Marty looked back at the secret service men, slightly frustrated, before saying to Peter, "We don't know what you're planning. But whatever it is, you need help from the inside, and you need information. We can give you that."

"In exchange for…?" Sylar bluntly asked, always one to get the first vibe when there was a _hunch. _

Marty held his hands in front of him and rocked back and forth on his heels. "All I can say now is that the only thing we want from you is peace of mind. But we shouldn't talk about it here. We've arranged a safe meeting place that we can escort you to."

Peter gave the mildly geeky man a nod of alliance before turning back to the door of his car. But Marty coughed significantly, stopping Peter as he reached for the handle.

"Er…" Marty awkwardly clarified, "Escort you in…_our _car, that is."

xxx

Normally, a Lincoln Towncar was roomy. But when Peter, Claire, and long-legged Sylar were crammed in the backseat between two secret servicemen, with Marty Benedict up front, the term "clowns in a Beetle" started to sound much more apt.

Peter glanced down at his hand, which was swelling with loss of circulation as Claire's nails dug into his palm. Their fingers were so entwined that he could scarcely tell where he stopped and she began.

He hadn't been to Washington D.C. much, let alone Georgetown, so most of this territory was foreign to him. Trees and Victorian houses and school zone signs flew past them in a blur, reflected on the super-tinted windows, too fast for Peter to really absorb any of it. All he knew was that in a certain inconspicuous looking house somewhere within a ten mile radius of him, his former brother, the President of the United States, waited to tear him a new one.

Or…offer him a job. The burly guys with sunglasses hadn't really been clear on what Nathan planned to do with him.

They'd been traveling barely fifteen minutes before the Lincoln started to slow down in front of a quaint little townhome. At first glance, Peter saw it as just another white-washed house shaded by big oak trees. However, a little gray sign out front that read _Benedict Law Offices and Associates_ betrayed his first assumption.

Another ominous black car was already parked outside the front of the building, alone. Claire and Peter craned their heads to get a closer look, but Marty blocked their vision as he exited the front seat and held open the door for everyone in the back. Sylar, Peter and Claire were last to tumble out of the rear, breathing in the fresh spring air of D.C. with relief. It had smelled like sweat and mothballs in the Towncar, though someone had clearly attempted to cover up the odor with a can of "new car smell," making things even worse.

Marty removed his clunky aviator shades and slid them into his breast pocket before leading the motley crew to the entrance of his law office. The building was, like many firms, a refurbished historical house in an area that most everyone could reach easily (even though Marty's fees weren't nearly as middle class.)

Sylar and Peter, both endowed with super-ears, could hear each other gulping. The brothers exchanged tense glances over Claire's head before looking back at Benedict.

Marty, flanked by two secret service men, slipped into the office with a perfect mix of privacy and innocence. They were soon followed by the almost-prisoners, who entered at a remarkably slower pace.

When everyone was in and the doors were closed behind them, Peter was already deep into the first step of the self-defense that Hiro had taught him. _Absorb your surroundings._

There were no weapons in sight. The room was abandoned, save for everyone who had just entered. The décor was very…presidential, if he had to give it a name, like something one would see in the White House. The front door was the sole exit, and there were three open doorways that led to other rooms throughout the law firm.

There was also a wooden staircase off to the side, and rapidly descending those steps was none other than President Nathan Petrelli.

"Claire!"

The young woman was immediately enveloped by the arms of her father, her feet almost lifting off the ground with the force of his embrace. Claire hugged him back, though without nearly as much enthusiasm. However, though Claire may have gotten a tender embrace from Nathan Petrelli, the girl's duel accomplices weren't greeted nearly as warmly. Peter barely managed to receive a terse nod. Sylar wasn't even that lucky.

Nathan's pan of the group stopped on the thickly-browed stranger, and he glowered. "Who the hell are you?"

Peter stepped forward. "He's my brother," he fiercely stated.

The muscle under Nathan's left eye twitched a bit in dismal acknowledgement. A slight blush also appeared across one of his cheeks, as though he'd been slapped with Angela's unforgiving hand. Though, other then that, he was totally emotionless.

Peter continued his stance in front of his comrades, his leadership far more visible than Nathan's. "Why did you call us here?" he demanded. "Why do you want to help us all of a sudden?"

"I don't want to help _you,_" Nathan snapped. His arm moved towards his daughter ever so slightly, who had retreated back to Peter, and he restrained the urge to cross the room and embrace her again. "I'm trying to Claire safe. That's all I've ever wanted to do, but you were too wound up and self-righteous to see it."

Peter glared as Claire's eyes nervously flitted between her lover and her father. The thought that Nathan and Peter had ever cared for one another seemed so foreign and strange…

Kind of like the thought that Sylar was actually a good man underneath the garbage pile of his past.

"As long as I've been President," Nathan began after a deep breath, "Sophia has held me down and forced me to make these laws. She's threatened Claire, and my family…what could I do?"

"You didn't even think about the fact that you were turning against your own people?" Peter gritted out.

Nathan's eyes narrowed. "I would never turn against my own people. I'd never turn against any minority. But Noah Bennet was right. A man will do a lot of horrible things to protect someone he loves, especially his daughter."

Claire was glad to see Peter's body relaxing a bit, clearly agreeing to this common ground with the President. The empath himself had done many a bad thing in the name of a guardian.

Nathan continued, reverting to a more diplomatic gear. "Listen to me. I've made preparations to crush Sophia's plan. She wants me to launch a final bill called the Mutant Purification Act _tonight_. Three guesses what it does."

"She wants to exterminate us?" Sylar quietly surmised. Nathan shot a nod of acknowledgement in the wiry man's direction before averting his gaze in turmoil.

"None of this makes any sense," Peter interrupted, putting up a palm. "Sophia IS a metahuman. Why is _she _going against us?"

"To make her plan easier," Nathan expounded jadedly, as if the plan had become stale in his mouth. "That's what stopped her husband's plans: people like _us._ The only ones capable of defeating the Lindermans are people who can do what we can do. Sophia figures that if she oppresses the mutants enough, then the runway is clear for her to do whatever she wants. Which means that if she wants to blow something, she can do it. Simply stated, she's taken Daniel Linderman's ideals and gone ballistic with them."

Peter snorted. "Yeah, she wants to blow up the Smithsonian. That won't exactly heal the world."

Nathan gave him a mysterious look, a mix of smugness and fear. "Blow up the Smithsonian? You think _that's _what she's doing?"

Sylar interjected their conversation with a light cough before describing their evidence to Nathan. "Micah Sanders and I looked at the schematics. Apparently, the machine she's building makes her shadow bigger. We figure that it could destroy the entire block of the Smithsonian."

Nathan let out a terrible chuckle, one that turned Peter's blood cold. The lawyer himself did not look devious, but the secret behind his eyes was of pure wickedness.

"You've got the right pieces, but you've put it in the wrong puzzle," he husked. "The Smithsonian isn't the drop zone. It's just where the machine is being _built._"

"Then what is she blowing up?" Peter frowned. Yet it was a useless question coming from him. He could already feel the answer in his gut, the warning he appealed that no one would listen to…

"_All _of D.C," Nathan said darkly. "I'm pretty sure that it increases the ability of whoever controls it. Which, in Linderman's case, means a twenty mile wide burning shadow that kills everything in its path."

The atmosphere rushed out of the room, making it hard to breathe. Sylar and Claire almost needed something to help them stand up, while a knowing grimace was chiseled into Peter's features.

He really hated being right.

Claire shook her head, mortified and ashamed of her father. "How can she get clearance to build something like that under a _national museum_?"

Nathan gave her a tired look. "Her daughter is a hotshot at the FBI, and I'm the President of the United States. It wasn't that hard, trust me."

"But it's genocide!" Claire exclaimed furiously. "How can you let this happen, Nathan?"

"I'm not," her father sternly replied. "That's the idea. I've already sent Heidi and the boys away, so Sophia has nothing left to hold over me. I'm supposed to sign the bill tonight, but I'm going to make some sort of excuse. Sophia is planning on launching her machine tomorrow night, after she arrives in D.C, so I just need to stall until then."

"It's going off tomorrow? On April 24th?" Peter murmured. April 24, 2013. 04-24-13. 4….24….13…

It was the number! 42413! The number that hovered over the word "Smithsonian" on the schematics. It wasn't an address or a meaningless code- it was a _date. _

"That could work," Claire spoke up, directing her words at Nathan. "If you lock down the building, you could trap her."

Sylar and Peter glanced at each other, shaking their heads slightly in sour disagreement.

"Oh, c'mon. You think a bunch of green army men with guns can kill that woman?" Peter asked bitterly. His hands moved to his shirt and his fingers began nimbly undoing the top couple buttons. It only took a few seconds to reveal his scar-crossed chest to Nathan. "She did this to me, and I can _heal, _Nathan."

Nathan stared, subtly appalled, at the oblique burns cascading over Peter's collar-bone and upper chest. He was familiar with the horror of Sophia Linderman's ability, having a couple scars on his own back to prove it, but he would never have guessed that it could overcome regenerative powers. That meant…Claire…God, she was in even _more _danger than he'd suspected. Sophia wouldn't need to cut out her brain to kill her; she could simply _touch _Claire with that shadow…

"Sophia still has the schematics under lock and key too," Sylar pointed out, though Nathan hardly heard him. "She could just build another machine somewhere else, because she's done with you. She's rich enough, and money buys secrecy."

Nathan turned from them as he thought it over, his palms flat against the top of his desk. Without looking back, he suddenly ordered, "Everyone out. I'll get back to you later."

The half dozen or so people behind him looked bewilderedly at each other, but complied anyway. Marty was out the door first, trailed by Sylar and the others.

"Except you, Peter."

Everyone save for Claire continued to file out of the office as Peter stopped in his tracks. She crept over to where Peter stood and grasped his hand with fierce confidence. "I'm staying too."

Peter ran his knuckles tenderly over her cheek. "Not now. Go wait with Sylar. I've got this."

Claire glanced over at her father, who was peering at them with a subtly mortified expression. She hesitated, but finally gave Peter a subdued nod.

She brought her face closer to his for a second, as if to kiss him, but she stopped after seeing Nathan looking at her over Peter's shoulder. The President's face was still blank and dumb, even though his eyes bore holes into Peter's leather-clad spine. Claire's heels fell back to the floor and she merely gave her lover's arm a comforting squeeze before following after Sylar and the others. Peter's gaze followed her until the front door closed behind her, and he saw her no more.

"Peter."

He turned around and was hit with several seconds of pregnant silence. Peter walked closer to Claire's father, and Nathan's worn-out features came into better focus. At one point, Peter thought he and Nathan looked _so much _alike, but now he wondered where that notion even came from. Nathan had a strong jaw, greenish-hazel eyes, thin lips, brown hair…not a single one of those matched Peter's characteristics in the least. Sylar, on the other hand…when Peter and Sylar stood next to each other, only a blind man would guess that there was no blood between them.

Images scrolled through Nathan's somber mind, of when he taught Peter to walk, or, on a totally other side of the spectrum, took the kid out for lap dances on his eighteenth birthday. A chuckle caught in his throat, muffled by the glare he was currently receiving from the younger man. He thought he had grown to hate Peter, but the truth was, he sort of admired him. At least his foster brother _did _something for the world. Meanwhile, Nathan was hiding in his office with a woman pointing a gun at his head, Elisa's finger resting casually on the trigger.

But even though the President was forgiving, the would-be First Brother was not. The only thing Peter could see was the coward that Nathan Petrelli had become.

"So," Nathan said, breaking the ice with an ax. "I see you found your real family."

Peter's fingernails dug into his palms as he held his fists behind his back, shielded from Nathan's piercing gaze. "Sort of," he replied evenly, though the restrained horsepower was still there. "I found my _brother._"

"Why?" Nathan's tone twisted into one of obnoxiousness. "You already had one, Pete. A mother, a niece."

When Peter cringed at that last word, Nathan arched an eyebrow. He shrewdly added, "But on the other hand, I think we both know that you didn't want her as a niece, huh?"

Peter said nothing, and Nathan felt a bubble of slight triumph swell in his heart. Just because he trusted his daughter in Peter's hands didn't mean that he wasn't still bitter. The man had _run away _for God's sake, without as much as a note. At the time when Nathan loved him like family, the President was just a smidgen upset with his faux-bro.

"How did you find Sophia Linderman?" Nathan abruptly asked, sitting down on the front of his desk. Peter's face lost some of its tension, and he was clearly thankful for the change of subject.

The following story that he told to Nathan was one that, instead of being full of emotion and revelation, had turned to stale ash in his mouth. Peter had spoken of it so many times, he hardly felt the energy to go into anything except the main points. Schematics. Scars. Kidnapping. Shadows. Souls. Shooting. Machine. Boom.

"And what are you planning on doing about it?" Nathan challenged. "Believe me, I've tried everything. She must have a psychic on her side: she can see anything that's coming."

Peter smirked maliciously for a moment, replying, "Did you ever think that your plans _might _just be bad?"

Before the politician could retort back with that lawyer's tongue of his, Peter breezily continued. "Besides, she's watching you like a hawk. She knows you're not really on her side. I bet that you can't even move without being watched."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Nathan muttered, picking at one of his presidintially sealed cuff links. "So you think you can fool her just because you're from the outside?"

"I'm the only one who can stop her because of what I can _do,_" Peter insisted. "What _all _of us can do. I mean, if me and Sylar worked together…"

Nathan's eyes suddenly widened, and he sat up from the desk. "Sylar? You're working with that psycho?"

Peter's eyes narrowed "Will you keep it down? He's got super hearing and he is _right there _you know." He gestured vaguely to the window. Sylar and Claire were conversing with Marty on the other side of the street, and after Peter's statement, Sylar looked up at the conversing rivals with a curious peer. Peter smiled a bit. _So you _are_ eavesdropping, huh bro?_

Nathan's hazel eyes were starting to water with strain as he stared, unblinking, out to the curb. "That's Sylar? That's your brother?"

Peter shrugged boredly.

"He's…he's young. Younger than I assumed, at least."

"I thought the same thing the first time I saw his face too," Peter responded calmly. "But he's not like how you remember him. He's amnesiac _and _he's on our side. He's looked out for me for three years, Nathan. You can trust him."

When Nathan didn't answer, Peter grimly added, "A helluva lot more than we should trust you."

The politician reined in a nasty retort concerning trust and his daughter's relationship with Peter. But things in that particular area could get ugly rather fast, so Nathan vowed to avoid thinking about it from then on.

"I have an operation set up already," Nathan changed the subject. "You won't be needed."

Peter leaned forward, pressing his full weight onto the table through his strong arms. "Have you listened to _anything _I've said?" he cried. "Your plan _sucks, _NathanI don't care if Sophia's mortal or not; a few guys with guns cannot take this woman down. Your best option is to just cancel the entire operation, evacuate everyone and leave it to us."

Nathan almost laughed. "Leave it two criminals? I have a small army of secret servicemen who are fully trained to-,"

Peter actually _did _start laughing. His voice was laced with cruel severity as he quipped back, "And how many battles have they actually been in, Nathan? How many times have their lives been endangered? How many times have they actually _died _doing what they do?"

The elder Petrelli's eyes narrowed, but he remained silent, proving Peter's point.

"I'm doing this whether you like it or not," Peter said defiantly. "I have Molly Walker's ability on my side, _and _I can turn invisible. I can locate Sophia when we get in the building, and I can sneak up on her. Even with all her power, she still doesn't have eyes in the back of her head. But if you throw a dozen guards with machine guns in there, she's bound to find them out before they even get close to her. "

"What about the machine?" Nathan reminded him. "It needs to be destroyed just as much as she does."

"Sylar's a tech genius. He can take apart the machine while I go after Sophia herself."

"And Elisa?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't know. We'll see what happens if she gets in the way."

Nathan mulled over it, before moistening his lips in consideration. "It sounds…plausible," he slowly confessed, avoiding Peter's eyes. "But…are you _positive_ you can actually do this?"

"Without a doubt. I made a promise to someone that I have to keep," Peter replied vaguely, dismissively. And even a thousand nights after their current conversation, Nathan still wouldn't be able to get Peter's malicious gaze out of his head as his former brother hissed, "I want that bitch, Nathan. She's the reason that half a million people have barcodes on their wrists. Trust me. I'll take no remorse in killing her."

He turned to leave Nathan with those final haunting words before remembering something that he should have brought up a long time ago.

"There's one last thing I want to mention to you," Peter added, turning back to Nathan. "When this is all over, and if we succeed…I want you to grant Sylar and Hiro Nakamura amnesty."

The round face of an enthusiastic Japanese man popped into Nathan's mind, and he smiled a bit, until the image of that same man was suddenly thrown into a jail cell and tazored a couple times. A deep frown formed on Nathan's face, and without hesitation, he said, "Of course."

But before Peter could leave, he left his foster sibling with a gloomy rebuke. "I want you to vow something to _me_."

"What?"

Nathan's expression was the more serious than Peter had ever witnessed. "You keep my daughter out of this, Michael."

Peter almost cringed, but forced himself to refrain as he let the gravity of that order, that demand with his _first _name rather than his nickname, sink in. He briefly glanced down at the "M" under the barcode on his wrist before looking back at Nathan.

"I never planned on taking her. I'll send her out of the state myself."

Nathan almost smiled. "Thank you."

Peter didn't even bother to wave or say a word in farewell as he swiveled smoothly around and headed out into the daylight once more. There was no reason to look back.

Claire and Sylar immediately swarmed him as soon as he came into their view, both asking the same question in unison. "What was that about?"

"Er, nothing. Just Nathan giving me a lecture, as usual." Then, Peter gave Sylar a knowing Look. "Besides, I thought you'd know. Weren't you listening in?"

Sylar bit his lip sheepishly. "Until you caught me."

Peter's only reply was a forgiving smirk as Marty held open the car door for them. Claire climbed into the backseat, followed by Peter and Sylar. Luckily, the secret servicemen stayed with Nathan this time, so the Towncar was instantly much roomier.

Just as Marty slammed the door shut behind Sylar, Claire gently rapped on the glass divider between the driver and the backseat. The chauffer turned his head in acknowledgement, lending her his ear in anticipation of a command.

"Can you take us to 206 Belvedere?" she kindly requested. The driver glanced at Marty, who shrugged and nodded, before turning back to Claire.

"Mm'kay kiddo. Belvedere it is."

Claire leaned back in her seat once more, a look of content relaxation on her pretty features. On the contrary, Peter was frowning slightly at her, his face contorted into a questioning expression.

"Where's that?"

Claire smiled up at him before breezily answering, "My house."

xxx

_Chapter Nineteen: "The Last Supper"_

_Coming Soon_


	20. The Last Supper

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in here except the plot!**

**---**

**Chapter Nineteen**

"**The Last Supper"**

When Claire said they were going to her "house," Peter was struck with images of a small, modest ranch house with a white picket fence and a satellite dish in the backyard. Needless to say, he was a little shocked when their Lincoln pulled into the driveway of a gorgeous mansion which blended in with the rest of the Georgetown Victorian homes in the neighborhood.

"I thought you said _house_," Peter said slowly to Claire. "Not _estate._"

She looked at him, knowing full well what he was thinking. Her shoulders shuddered uncomfortably and she quickly replied. "It was all Nathan, trust me. He wanted me to be taken care of, and I said a small apartment was fine, but he insisted that this neighborhood was really safe, so…here we are."

"It's not exactly discreet," Sylar agreed with his brother as they all stumbled out of the car. "Aren't people going to wonder why Nathan's throwing a few thousand dollars a month away on a mortgage?"

"The only people that would get that close to my father's bills are the ones that know I exist," Claire shortly expounded. She slammed the car door shut once they were all out, and waved to the driver in thanks. Claire herself had a car, a modest green Volkswagen that seemed cheap compared to the house.

She was slightly surprised that it had even made it back to her house, before recalling that she had taken the Metro to work the day Peter brought her to Boston. Had she driven herself that day, the car would probably still be in the FBI's parking lot.

When they reached the front door, after climbing up a small flight of exterior steps, Claire realized with a sinking heart that her keys were nowhere to be found on her. With all she'd been through, she'd lost them at some point, and the only spare house key she had was in a junk drawer somewhere inside.

"Crap," she muttered, jiggling the knob uselessly. "I lost my keys."

Sylar reached out with his mind, imagining the inside of the doorknob. He had taken one apart before and he remembered exactly how all the mechanisms worked, how the slider pushed against another strip of metal, pushing it into the hole in the doorframe. The shining knob started to shake as he mentally tinkered with it until finally, his telekinesis unlocked the door with a small _click._

The door opened to a crack after Sylar worked his magic. Peter and Claire watched the empty crack between the frame and the door, pleasantly amazed at the amnesiac's handiwork.

"I, uh…I could have just used Micah's power to tell the security system to open the lock," Peter said awkwardly.

Claire ignored him. "This works. Thanks, Sylar."

She pushed her way into the house, peeling back its final mask. Sylar and Peter followed her into the front foyer, their eyes sparkling as they took in the tiled floors, chandeliers, and gorgeous whiter-than-white walls. Peter was more surprised that this was _Claire's _rather than being amazed at the house itself. He grew up in a mansion like this, after all. He'd seen his fair share of diamond centerpieces and elegant crown molding.

Sylar was much more starstruck at the design of the place. He was a man to show respect for craftsmanship on a normal day, but all of the handmade details on the ceiling, floor, staircase…all in all, he saw the sweat in the structure a lot more than he saw the money.

"Make yourselves at home," Claire hollered from the coat closet as she hung up her sweater. The two men exchanged deliberate glances, both certain that Claire was only being polite. If Sylar and Peter acted like they would at home, Claire, friend or not, would most assuredly kick them out.

Claire re-entered the foyer, veering towards the staircase. "Hey, I'm gonna go upstairs and change. The kitchen's to the left, so you can raid the fridge all you want. I'll just be down in a second, okay?"

Peter looked down at his own attire. At that moment, he wore a wrinkled pair of jeans that he hadn't taken off in three days and a black t-shirt that had seen better days. All three of them were pretty grimy after their non-stop road trip, but it was Claire's house, so he let her have first dibs on good hygiene.

By the time Claire had disappeared upstairs, Sylar was already in the kitchen. Greasy spoons and M&Ms from the Kwik-I-Mart were okay every once in a while, but the past week's diet tore up his stomach something terrible. Niki's cooking had been quite good, however short-lived it was, but gas station food was still starting to take its toll.

"Doesn't she have regular milk?" Sylar poked his head up from the refrigerator as Peter entered. The leaner brother smiled in spite of himself as his list of Claire trivia was finally getting a chance to show off.

"She only drinks chocolate milk," Peter replied. "Or egg nog, if it's Christmas. She hates plain milk, though."

Sylar shrugged and took the cartoon of moo out anyway. He sat the chocolate milk down on the island and then stood still, giving Peter a knowing stare full of expectance. Peter caught his eye and frowned.

"What's that look for?" Peter said defensively.

"I lied when we were getting in the car," Sylar declared shamelessly. "I didn't stop eavesdropping on you."

"So? Nathan didn't say much."

Sylar steepled his fingers. "Yes, but 'not much' is still something. Especially to Claire. I don't think she's going to appreciate that vow you made to Nathan."

Peter reflected back to his conversation with the president. Oh…_oh. _When he promised Nathan that he'd keep Claire away from the danger zone, he hadn't even thought of how Claire would take the news. But now that the issue was brought up, he _knew_ there would be a struggle over it. Part of him felt guilty for making such a decision for her, yet his more noble side saw nothing wrong with his vow. Claire would be protected whether she liked it or not.

"She'll deal with it," Peter responded brusquely. "I'm keeping her safe, even if it means teleporting her out of the country. Sophia will have to step over my dead body if she wants to even _find _Claire."

And that's when he felt it. Two cold, piercing eyes traveling over his back, and the vibrations of a high heel tapping accusingly on the linoleum.

"What are you talking about?" Claire demanded accusingly, her stabbing question directed right at Peter's spine. "Don't even think I'm not going on this mission, because-,"

Peter turned around. "Claire." Her name came out through chapped lips and beneath tired eyes. His expression begged her not to argue, as though he had been dreading this very conversation for a while now.

Claire was not backing down that effortlessly. "Don't _'Claire' _me! I'm going with you."

"I promised Nathan I'd send you away when it happens so you'll be safe," Peter rapidly explained, holding up his palms in truce. At least he could make Nathan seem like the bad guy in this situation while presenting himself as the innocent messenger.

"And since when do you listen to what Nathan says?!" Claire exclaimed hysterically. Peter cringed as she saw past his façade of blamelessness. "Peter! What are you thinking?"

Sylar sunk back into the corner of the kitchen, wishing more than anything that he had Peter's invisibility. Even worse than overly affectionate friends were _feuding _friends.

"I'm not gonna put you in that position!" Peter's weariness shattered as he yelled back, his voice becoming commanding. "Sophia could kill you in an instant without even thinking about it. You think I want to see that happen to you?!"

"Nothing is going to happen to me!" Claire claimed indignantly. Her hands were on her hips in frustration. "I'm FBI trained; I can take care of myself!"

She stopped, finally wrangling in her loose tongue. Even if her mouth was protesting, she knew the whole time that Peter was only thinking of her well-being. Plus, between him, Sylar, and Nathan the Overprotective Daddy, Claire suspected she'd be having this discussion at some point. But though her stance had not changed, the reason behind her yearn to fight Sophia had turned into something she hadn't expected.

Truthfully, Claire couldn't stand to see Peter get hurt again. For once, it was _her_ who wanted nothing more than to protect_ him_. She wanted to kill the woman who scarred him, who killed Micah's father, who had threatened her for the past four years.

But whether it was Sylar's presence, their tense attitudes, or her own insecurity in the way, she didn't say any of that. She merely pursed her lips and gave him a final dejected gaze before turning on her heel and leaving the brothers' company. Peter heard footsteps clambering up the stairs, and he automatically assumed that she was headed towards her room.

It took him ten minutes to follow her. One of them was used to think of what to say, and the last nine were to the muster up the courage to actually go up there.

xxx

Peter rested his knuckles lightly against the door, fully planning to knock until Claire eventually let him in. Yet something restricted him, some moral anchor deep within his frayed excuse for a soul. After dwelling over it for a few long minutes, he still was no closer to resolving things with her. That closed door, that barrier blocking him from freely entering her space, made him feel a sense of fault.

Something tugged on his sock, and he wrenched his leg back, taken aback off the contact. But it was just Petey, slithering on the carpet and poking at his ankle. Peter cocked his head and peered down at the shadow, who was frantically gesturing towards the door.

"I can't," Peter snapped in a low voice. "She doesn't want me to."

His shadow seemed distraught with him, an ironic role-reversal. Petey stood up to his full height, meeting his host at exactly eye-level, and he grabbed the human by the shoulders.

"_What?"_

Without warning, Petey stuck his shadowflesh arm right through the door, the black silhouette phasing perfectly though the wood. Peter's eyes widened in understanding, and he gradually nodded to his shadow.

If Petey had eyes, he would have rolled them before tripping the wall and entering the kingdom of Claire.

xxx

Claire wasn't sure if she started crying right when she entered her room or when she fell upon her bed. Either way, it didn't really matter ten minutes later, when the sheets were still inevitably soaked with her tears.

She felt weakness soak into her bones and muscles. Not just exhaustion, but an internal Achilles' heel in her spirit. Claire had never been good at standing up for herself. She always tried like a firecracker to do so, but instead of coming off defiant and strong, she saw all her feeble attempts at leverage as whiny and childish pleas. Every time she tried to steer things in her favor, her mouth went back to age seventeen.

Sounding immature hurt even worse now, knowing deep down that her intentions were anything but selfish. Usually her rants centered somewhere around herself. But God, this wasn't about _her. _This was about _Peter. Her _Peter. He'd been stolen away from her by the hands of death, politics, free will, _whatever _too many times in her life for her to take it even once more.

She could not lose him again. Just the thought alone sent her into even harder sobs. She could recall with exact detail how she felt every time he had died. She remembered Homecoming, she remembered the shard of glass, she remembered him standing in the doorway, shiny and new, after going nuclear over New York. She could remember with even more vivid detail his marred and limp body in the arms of Hiro Nakamura, being carried to the den while presumed permanently dead. Just a few days ago.

None of those times had been easy, but when Peter always came back like the sun after a storm, his awakenings were some of the most joyful moments of Claire's young life. However, Sophia's powers superseded his. She was higher on the evolutionary food chain and if Darwin's theories had any truth, she would surely conquer Peter.

Claire let out a helpless moan and buried her face in the damp pillow. She had the full intent to simply lie there, drowning in her sorrow and saltwater until God knows when, but a light touch against her arm interrupted her weeping.

"Go away, Peter," she said weakly, batting the hands away.

A battlefield of fallen hopes and binding love ignited her insides as she was torn between pushing him away and falling into his embrace. She chose the former, hiding herself again in her hands. Yet Peter poked her in the shoulder again, insistent to be heard.

"I told you to-!" Claire stopped in mid-sentence when she saw an innocent looking shadow, its arms crossed over its chest.

Claire sniffed, calming down. "He must be desperate if he's sending you in here."

Petey's appearance was nonchalant as he sat down next to her on the bed. He pulled his legs under him, Indian-style, and cocked his head at Claire in query.

A shaded arm reached out and tucked a lock of the girl's hair behind her ear. Claire's stare followed his fingers as they brushed down her cheek and eventually ended up clasping her hand.

"Is he out there?" Claire asked in a tiny whisper, glancing towards the door.

Petey rubbed his neck and tittered before hesitantly nodding. Claire smiled.

"Don't feel bad. It's not your fault he's so anxious." She grimaced at how ungrateful that sounded. "I guess it's not a bad thing that he is, but it can make me feel small sometimes, you know? I know he's just trying to be my hero, like always, but I don't need protecting all the time." Her voice started to clog with tears. "Every once in a while, maybe _he _needs protecting."

Her eyes darted towards the door, as if she was making sure it was still closed. Her voice became even quieter as she continued to pour out her heart to Petey. It was as close as she was going to get to a real confession.

"I don't want him to go," she sniveled. "Sophia's stronger than him, and he doesn't want to admit it. But what do I expect, right? He's always been that way. He's always wanted to be a stupid _hero._"

She wiped her eyes on her already-moist sleeve, and Petey did nothing but squeeze her hand tighter. Claire was worried that he might have been offended from her slightly coarse opinion of Peter's hero complex, but the soul showed now sign that it was insulted.

"Why doesn't he understand that-," Claire hesitated and put a hand to her chest. After a few seconds, she regained her composure. "Why doesn't he realize that he already _is," _she said. "He's been a hero since he saved me at Homecoming, but he's always acted that didn't count. He's so _hard _on himself, and I just want him to see that,-"

The sobs overcame her and her body collapsed into Petey's warm arms. She was barely comprehendible through the choked tears, but all of her emotion was loud and clear.

"I love him the way he is," she cried, clutching at where Petey's shirt would be. "He doesn't need to save the world. He's already _enough_. I don't want him to throw his life away like this." Claire gritted her teeth and said into Petey's chest with heartbreaking emotion, "_I can't live without him_. God, I don't know wh-what I'd do if he d-di…"

_Died. _She couldn't voice the actual word, even though it, and other variations, marqueed obscenely through her mind. Died. Expired. Slain. Slaughtered.

And most horrible of all_…murdered. _

xxx

Though Claire's voice was too quiet to hear, and he felt too guilty to turn on his super-hearing, Peter could still sense her words through the body of his shadow. Everything that came out of her mouth traveled through Petey and into the man's chest like a memory from a distant dream. His empathy sensed her pain and sobs, her tone full of love and well-being.

After only a few minutes of being so connected with her, yet still so far away, he couldn't take it anymore.

Peter's hand moved of its own accord, rapping against the lumber of Claire's door. He nearly crumpled to the ground in relief when he heard a small voice answer, "_Come in." _

The door wasn't locked, but Peter hadn't expected it to be. It was his own remorse keeping him out all along.

Claire's eyes, bloodshot with emotion, were the first things Peter saw. His hands were cupping her cheeks almost immediately, two hot basins for Claire's tears to pool in. The girl sniffed and rubbed her eyes self-consciously, trying not to think about her blotchy red cheeks and ten other things that looked ugly when she cried.

Peter didn't seem to notice any of that, though. "C'mon," he murmured. "It's not so bad. I'll be fine, I promise."

Claire's eyes widened in horror. "Did you hear what I was…oh…God, you weren't supposed to hear-"

"I didn't _hear _anything," he honestly assured her. "I don't know. I more like…felt it. Through him."

Claire's cheeks reddened to a deep shade of pink. She would have liked for her heart to be exposed to him under better circumstances, and with more of her consent, but the cat was out of the bag now. After Noah and the Bennet family had gone out of her life and Claire was stuck with the Petrellis, she had gotten into the bad habit of second-guessing everyone's love. Realistically, to doubt how Peter felt about her was absurd, but bad habits do die hard. Claire was so used to having Angela say "I care about you, dear," with a scowl or Nathan doing something nice without endearment…it was quite a rarity nowadays to look upon someone and know with one hundred percent certainty that they truly loved her.

Peter gently lifted up her chin, so she had no other choice but to meet his piercing eyes. Her blush was now spreading across the roots of her hair. "I know you feel like all I see you as is this girl I have to save. But you're _so much _more than that, Claire. You don't have to prove anything. I know how brave you are, and I…" His words became strangled and frail as he finally proclaimed, hardly audible, "…I love you."

With those three words, Claire lost it entirely, unbridled sobs ramming into her body. Tears fell faster than Peter could wipe them away, and for a few seconds, he wondered if he'd said something to truly upset her. Was she not ready to hear such a thing from him? Or was she simply awestruck and in bittersweet heartbreak, her emotions overwhelming her in a typhoon of confusing feelings?

He got confirmation when Claire grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down into a rough, tear-soaked kiss. Her mouth dominated his wildly as if this was the last kiss they'd ever share, a chilly prospect that even Claire's miracle touch wouldn't heal.

Claire abruptly wrenched away from his lips and fell into his arms, her crying face buried in his neck. Peter guided her to the bed and sat beside her, a comforting arm still around her back.

When Claire's hiccups and brine rivers of tears had subsided to a point where she could talk, she wiped her eyes and leaned into Peter. Her nose nuzzled against his collar bone and he shuddered at the tickling sensation that erupted on his skin. Their physical stance almost distracted him from what she was actually _saying, _and he sheepishly focused on her voice.

"It doesn't matter what you see me as," Claire whispered brokenly. "I just want you to be _safe_."

Once upon a time, Claire saw her ability as a safety net for both of them. But now that Sophia Linderman's wrath had emerged…now that the definition of "indestructible" was damaged and evolution was using them as its bitch yet again…

All of a sudden, Claire felt like she and Peter were the most vulnerable people on Earth.

Peter cradled her frame even closer, nearly as wrecked as she. However, Peter was better at masking his emotions, and he put on an encouraging pretense to ease her.

"Shh. Don't worry. Nothing can ever hurt me when I think of you," he muttered into her hair. His slender hands rubbed circles on her back as he held her tighter in his embrace. "Literally."

Claire chuckled slightly into the crook of his neck. She angled her head so Peter's lips were centimeters from her own, and with the lovely timidness of the virgin she wasn't, she leaned up and kissed him, much more affectionately now.

Wasn't it funny that every kiss felt like the first? Each had equal passion and electricity, yet at the same time, shyness and innocence was also weaved into the tapestry of their love.

Gradually, Claire opened her mouth to him and let him explore her with his tongue. Peter brought his hands up and tilted her chin back so he could kiss her even deeper, with even more unobstructed zeal. He idly felt her nimble fingers playing with the hem of his shirt, but thought nothing of it until she starting to tug it upwards.

"Are you su-?"

She stopped his protests with another kiss. Peter, who wasn't one to argue with a woman who knew what she wanted, shifted his position and pulled her into his lap so she straddled him. There…_that _was better. Now they could actually reach each other without pulling a muscle or two.

Claire continued to yank on his shirt, and Peter obediently raised his arms, letting her slide it right off him. As soon as he was shirtless, she tenderly pushed him into the pillows, so they were now horizontal.

"You act like you've done this before," Peter rasped as Claire pressed a trail of butterfly kisses from his neck down to his navel.

"I have, just once," she confessed softly, pulling herself back up to his eye level. Her serious expression suddenly turned into a smirk. "But mostly, I _read._"

Peter let out a primal noise. "I don't know what you've been reading, but I want a copy."

With one strong arm, he pulled her down for another heart-stopping kiss as his other hand explored her blouse. It was one of those dress shirts with as many buttons as humanly possible holding it together, and Claire immediately scolded herself for wearing it.

Yet Peter had a different viewpoint, lazily smiling up at her in appreciation. "Mmm. I like these shirts."

Claire squirmed, trying unsuccessfully to shimmy out of it. "Are you kidding? I can't get it off."

Peter pressed a finger to his lips in the _'shh' _gesture. "Slow down, Claire. I'll get it."

He hadn't lied when he said he liked it. Those blouses, with their ridiculous amount of buttons and tightly tailored seams, made the experience all the more sensual, and the suspense nearly unbearable. Peter slid every individual button out of each slot at a tortuously slow pace, and by the time he was nearing the bottom few, Claire was tempted to simply push him back and rip the whole thing right off herself.

Once she finally got the dreaded shirt off, more clothes were shed piece by piece until the only thing left was skin on skin. After Claire had successfully removed the last scrap of material from Peter's body, she went back to straddling him, feeling very adventurous.

Peter was lightheaded and breathless as Claire's fingers trailed across his body, across his scars, baptizing him and erasing the touches of the past. His head lolled on the pillow, lips parted in slight ecstasy, and all Claire could do in return was beam down upon him.

"Are you okay?" she asked quirkily and carefree. Peter opened his shining eyes, his elation nearly blinding her.

"Just…you make me feel…" He looked for a word that wouldn't be clichéd. But as hard as he tried to push lyrics from _Like A Virgin _out of his head, he couldn't come up with anything better than "…new."

Claire giggled. "Like in that Madonna song?"

Peter cringed, but then laughed. "Yeah."

His intoxicated manner made him think distantly of Petey, and his curiosity started to get the best of him. The shadow was nowhere to be seen, and the immortal man wondered if that was possibly a _good _thing. Peter wasn't so sure he wanted to see his soul getting off at his sexual embargos, if that was indeed what was happening somewhere in the house.

"Peter?" said Claire from above. "You ready?"

Her voice, all of a sudden timid, brought him out of his reverie. She hovered over him, their bodies inches from becoming one, and Peter propped himself up on his elbows to be closer to her.

"Yeah," he husked. He glowed with equal parts desire and tranquility, every aspect of his being, even down to his blinking, becoming blissful and dreamy. Peter rested his fingertips on her hips, his hands naturally molding her pelvic bones. "What about you?"

The corner of Claire's mouth curled and she ran a delicate hand through his hair, brushing it off his forehead. "Never better."

They were motionless for a couple moments, just staring at each other in admiration. Claire toyed with Peter's hair while he stroked her hips, his eyes roaming over her gorgeous body. Creamy skin, perfectly ripe breasts, brown locks cascading like a waterfall out of her scalp.

"What are you thinking?" Claire murmured against his cheek.

Peter moved his hands up to frame her face. "Just thinking about how I'm the luckiest guy on Earth."

Claire went to retort something in disagreement, but he pressed a finger against her lips to stop her, his countenance having the final statement. The young woman's eyes darted back and forth as her words were ripped from her mouth, leaving her outright speechless. Just as a comeback began to form in the back of her throat, Peter shushed her with a brush of his kiss.

"Don't speak," he whispered as his lips caressed her own. Their gazes met one last time, exchanging understanding, before Claire pulled Peter towards her with more firmness.

Peter's senses were overloaded as she captured him in a soft kiss while sinking down on him at the same time. Claire's hands were wound around his neck, legs hugging his hips, breasts pressed firmly against his torso, all while her velvet heat enveloped him in ecstasy. They moved in perfect rhythm as though their minds had weaved into one entity, both their mental and physical proximity exploding with surreal enchantment.

Yet above all, the single most beautiful element was a pair of mahogany eyes, penetrating Claire with love and ardor, and the only things she could see as their bodies stirred together in the darkness.

xxx

A half-hour later, Claire was spooned up against Peter's side, legs tangled with her lover's as he methodically stroked her hair. They lay sweaty and naked, both half-asleep and waiting for the other one to say something.

Peter's petting of her locks unexpectedly stopped, prompting Claire to open her eyes in expectance.

"Why'd you stop? That felt good."

Peter was lost in his own memories though. "Do you remember that time…I don't really know which one it was, but it was at one of Nathan's get-together things…Anyway, there was this guy named Drew who kept hittin' on you."

Claire sat up, shuddering in revulsion. "Ew, much? That guy was like, forty. What does he have to do with anything?"

"Well, I never told you this, but I wanted to punch him out _so bad. _I would have too, if Angela hadn't been watching, and if you could have ducked in time."

Moonlight reflected off her gleaming teeth. "Why are deciding to tell me this now?"Claire shyly inquired.

Peter winked. "Remember the list of things I want to tell you? That was on there. Two down, one to go."

Claire's face was unreadable in the darkness, but her body finally seemed relaxed and content as she nestled back into his arms. "You know who _I _wanted to punch out?"

Peter kissed her temple and asked who.

"_Lydia_" she answered with a shiver. Peter frowned, trying to remember if he knew anyone of that name when-

"Oh God…now, wait a second. Are you talking about that waitress at Olive Garden when we there for my birthday?" Peter fought back laughter at Claire's overly-disgusted look.

Ah, he remembered now. In fact, now that the memory was playing so vibrantly in his head, he wondered how he could even forget such an incident. The _Lydia _in question was a voluptuous waitress who literally couldn't keep her hands off Peter. At first he simply took her to be a stereotypical touchy-feely Italian woman, a fitting choice for the Olive Garden, but when she started to give him a backrub with the salad and a lap dance inside of a side dish, Peter began to get a little weirded out. As if it couldn't get worse, as a last extra lurch for a date, Lydia wrote her phone number in icing on top of his free birthday slice of tiramisu. Of course, Peter made sure to let his fork "slip" and smudge the digits as soon as Lydia was out of view.

And whilst all this was happening, Claire was on the other end of the table with daggers in her eyes that the elder members of the Petrelli family pretended not to notice.

"Well…Lydia was…hot," Peter said dryly. Claire sat up and shot him a dirty look, and he innocently assured her, "But she still wasn't you."

Content once more, Claire settled back down onto Peter's chest. "Did you call her?"

Peter looked over and arched an eyebrow. "Claire. Did you _ever_ see me go out with a woman?"

She was about to retort something nasty about his smutty reputation with damsels over the past couple years, but when Claire actually looked back to the past, to the time _she _knew him…why…he was right.

"I never really noticed," she said frankly. "But I guess that's just 'cause you never brought in any evil girlfriends for me to make faces at when she wasn't looking."

"You caught me doing that to Freddie, huh?" Peter guiltily asked, toying with the bed covers.

"Um…Freddie?"

Peter was stunned. "Your high school sweetheart, remember? You were with him for over a year."

Claire gasped in recollection and she smacked her forehead. "Oh! Right! Gosh, how could I forget him? He always picked on me for weird anal stuff. Like this one time, I was organizing my CD collection by how often I listened to them, because I didn't want to reach all the way to the bottom of the shelf for my favorite album, you know? But he jumped down my throat, all 'Claire! You have to do it by alphabetical order or genre or something! It's a total mess like this!' And I was like 'What am I, Itunes? Who cares about the genre?' Then he'd usually leave me alone until he found something else to bitch about."

Peter couldn't help but laugh at her ridiculous impression of Freddie. From what he knew of the kid, Claire's imitation was pretty spot on. He himself once encountered that side of the glasses-clad boy, and was forced to awkwardly explain (well…lie about) why he and Claire had a more physically open relationship than most uncles and nieces. Freddie merely scowled and sauntered off, not the least bit convinced, and if Peter could recall correctly, Claire and her beau broke it off soon after that.

"Now I kind of feel guilty though," Claire said in a mousey tone. She snuggled closer to Peter, as if to confirm to herself that he was still tangible and completely hers. "You were alone all that time and I was dating a bunch of people."

She felt his body shrug underneath hers. "Don't feel bad, Claire. You were a teenager. I was just happy that you were living a normal life."

Off Claire's look of doubt, Peter finally broke and admitted, "Okay, maybe a little jealous too, but I was still happy for you. Really."

Claire's heart lightened. She pulled herself up, using his shoulders for leverage, until her face was inches from his. Her brown hair tumbled down to Peter's ears, creating a canopy of silken locks all around his crown.

"And I thought you were gonna be one of those overprotective jealous types," Claire said languorously before pressing a warm, mind-numbing, perfectly post-coitol kiss to his lips.

Peter smirked back and tickled her waist, agreeing. "No worse than you. I know what you can do when you get pissed off."

Claire writhed, trying to escape the wrath of his tickling fingers. "Well," she sighed between giggles. "since we're both on such short leashes, I guess we can never leave the house. We'll just be stuck here. In this bed. Forever."

Peter chuckled merrily as he rolled them over, before sensually kissing her collarbone. "No complaints," he purred.

It only took a minute for him to be within her once more, his body, mind, and soul wrapped utterly in a cocoon of Claire.

xxx

Niki's fingernails scraped his neck, along that small divide where pale skin met dark locks. Sylar swore he felt himself tremble. The woman's blue eyes were shining up at him and he gladly fell through the ice, letting himself turn numb as Niki caressed his face and body.

"Oh, Sylar," she moaned, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. But Sylar didn't take much notice, as one usually doesn't in a dream. All that mattered was that here in his arms was the most beautiful woman in the world, and her lips were coming closer and closer to his…

But instead of two soft strips of cloud nine, Sylar felt something hard and bony rub against his mouth, almost like a pair of knuckles, accompanied by that same ridiculously high-pitched voice cooing _"Mmmm, Sylar…you taste so gooood…"_

"Hnn?" Sylar grunted, slowly opening his eyes. There was someone's face above him, surrounded by a blurry halo of light.

"Niki?" Sylar asked hopefully.

The person on his lap scoffed and swatted him on the nose. "Thanks a lot. Whatever happened to 'bros before hos'?"

Sylar's thick brows shot up in horror as he finally recognized who was pawing at him. "Peter! What the _hell _are you doing?!"

The amnesiac man tried to scramble to the other end of the couch, but Peter's weight on his legs made it impossible to move. Sylar took a closer look at his brother, who had his arm resting on the top of the couch and a total shit-eating grin. Peter, his black hair soaked with wet from an apparent shower, was clad in nothing but his boxers, the scars on his chest shining in the den light.

"What _ever _are you doing? Why are you sitting on me?! Why aren't you _wearing _anything?"

"Oh, what, so you don't want _me_, but you're perfectly fine with _Niki_ now, eh?" Peter retorted back, poking Sylar accusingly in the chest.

Sylar's cheeks were starting to flush. "No! Well…yes, but…j-just…shut up and get off of me!" Sylar exclaimed in an uncharacteristic show of anger. But Peter was not to be repelled away so easily.

"Come on, Sylar. Claire and I could hear you moaning her name from upstairs. It was kind of starting to hurt our own fun, actually."

Sylar calmed down a bit, at least enough to stop wriggling. When Peter's announcement sunk in, he confirmed, in a low voice, "Ah…you and Claire…"

Peter nodded, and at least the question concerning his state of dress was answered.

Sylar's eyes narrowed in thought. "So you suddenly decide to come and pick on me like a twelve-year-old because you slept with her?" he wryly inquired. "Something about that doesn't add up, Peter."

Peter shrugged. "I'm in a good mood. I just had this sudden urge to come and tell you…" He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around Sylar's neck, holding his brother in a tight embrace.

"I love you, Sylar."

Sylar grabbed Peter by the shoulders and yanked him back, looking his brother square in the face. "You haven't been drinking again, have you?"

"I mean it!"

As much as Sylar wanted to believe that Peter was high or drunk or had his sinus medicine mix with his vitamins in the wrong way, there was no denying that the charming, stupidly adorable grin on the young man's face was authentic.

"Peter. Stop looking at me like that. You're making me feel uncomfortable."

"Looking at you like what?"

"Like I'm a pin-up of Catherine Zeta-Jones."

Peter guffawed. "God, no, not _you." _He finally slipped off Sylar's lap and onto the other cushion. "It's _her. _I don't even know what to say. I-I can't stop thinking about her…and…she's upstairs taking a shower and I already feel like she's too far away."

_Aha, _Sylar realized. Peter was absolutely, irrevocably, _undeniably_ lovesick. The young man practically had a circlet of cartoon hearts spinning around his forehead. Peter couldn't help but grin like an idiot, his whole body completely relaxed. On another couch, his shadow had its head even higher up in the clouds as it lay passed out and dreaming.

"Well, you may as well tell me the details and get it out of your system," Sylar said sardonically as he picked up an out-of-date newspaper from the coffee table and started thumbing through it. "I know you're dying to."

Peter's mindless jubilation was tarnished for a second. "No, not this time. I don't think she'd appreciate me talkin' about her. Though, I've got to say, it was pretty much _the most _amazing thing of my life."

"So there is a God," Sylar said in relief. "I feared I would have to sit through another half hour about how many times you made her orgasm and what her moans sounded like."

Peter was hurt. "You don't like my 'after talks'?"

Sylar looked up from the paper with unforgiving eyes. "No."

"Oh, you're just mad 'cause I woke you up from your good dream."

"Partially so," Sylar divulged.

Peter's empathetic side began to kick in as he absorbed the sulking form of his brother curled up on the other side of the couch. Here he was, blabbering on about how madly in love he and Claire were, when his poor flesh and blood could only have the touch of a woman in his dreams.

"I sorry," he said sincerely. "I wasn't even thinking about you and…" Peter trailed off, not sure what to say. "I'll stop talking about her, I promise."

Sylar's gaze rose up again from his reading material and he put the paper aside. "Prattle all you want. I'm happy for you, honestly. I know how long you've loved Claire."

Peter's face glazed over with nostalgia and contemplation. However, after a few moments, he leaned forward and gave Sylar's arm a friendly nudge.

"I do," he said. "But you're my brother. You'll always come first no matter what, okay?"

Sylar sighed kindly. "Right. We'll see how long that lasts."

Peter smiled back, and for a moment, there were in the old times again: living in an abandoned bordello, parties every night, adventures and missions. Even Sylar had to admit those were the glory days, no matter how sinful some of them were. Now, Sylar and Peter felt like old veterans of a lost war with one last shot at the enemy. There were two options left: defeat Sophia, or watch the world crumble into executions and prejudice, and sit, waiting forevermore for them and everyone they knew to be picked off one by one.

They _had _to win tomorrow. The alternative was too painful to think about.

A smell like vanilla and coconuts swiftly wafted throughout the den as Claire, in a bathrobe with her wet brown hair down and stringy, started to descend the staircase. Peter pulled himself into a sitting position and stared at her as if she was Miss America. A small blush spread across the girl's cheeks when she made eye contact with him. All she had was a tattered bathrobe, no make-up, and messy hair, yet his brilliant smile still made her feel beautiful.

"What are you so happy about?" she asked bashfully. Peter rested his head back on the couch's armrest and Claire crossed the room to look straight down upon him. Her slender hands reached out, stroking his cheeks, feeling the pleasurable, light stubble scrub against her fingertips.

Though his perspective was slightly off, his vision was still intact enough to spot her face suddenly coming closer to his. Still, it was hard _not _to catch the sly wink she gave him before planting an upside-down kiss on his lips.

Out of all Peter's dalliances with damsels, it would be safe to assume that at least _one _woman would pull the ol' Spiderman-style smooch on him. But maybe the women he'd been with simply weren't that old-fashioned, for Claire was actually the first one to do so. Her mouth moved opposite of his in a uniquely erotic way that made him quiver. Her thumbs stroked his upper jaw and the tips of her fingers tilted his chin up to meet her. Just as Peter's urge to moan almost got the best of him, Claire pulled her soft lips away from his.

"Wow," he croaked, and Claire gave him a self-satisfied smirk in return.

Meanwhile, Sylar was curled up on the other side of the couch, still reading the news, totally oblivious to their giddiness. Just because he was happy for them didn't mean he had to act like a starry-eyed buffoon whenever they touched. There was often a tinge of sourness that popped up whenever he saw Peter and Claire together. They shared a sort of bliss that he'd never even come close to.

Peter drew his legs in so Claire could take the middle cushion of the couch. As soon as his lover was seated, he extended his legs back to where they were and placed them in her lap. Claire seemed content enough, beginning to lightly massage his ankles as she struck up conversation with Sylar.

"Did we miss anything?" She gestured to the paper. There was a small pile of unrolled newspapers on her coffee table, papers that had collected on her driveway over the week she had been out with Peter and Sylar.

"Have you ever seen the movie _The Sixth Sense?" _he questioned out of the blue. But Claire, knowing from experience that everything Sylar said was significant, merely nodded.

Sylar continued. "The first time you see it, if you weren't spoiled, the ending is this big surprise that you never expect, right? But the second time you see it, when you know how it ends, you all of a sudden notice all of these clues that you didn't spot the first time."

"Your point?" Peter yawned. He was too wrapped up in Claire's gentle hands kneading the stress out of his legs to pay much attention to the "saving the world" thing. He'd spent six years with that clouding his vision. He wanted just _one night _to banish all thoughts of fixing the crumbling house of cards that was their society.

Apparently, the cosmic universe thought he'd had enough fun for one day, though. Sylar ripped out a page from the previous Saturday's paper. He held it out to the pair, eyes dancing with revelation.

"I'm just saying. It's funny what you observe when you know how the story's going to end."

Claire took the small cutout from Sylar's hand and she took in the headline. _Museum of Natural History to Re-open on April 24__th_

The woman just barely let out a gasp. "April 24th. That's the day after Sophia's launching her machine."

"They'll be 're-opening' a pile of dust," Peter commented bleakly, his attention fully on the situation at hand once again. _Great, _he thought, peeved. _Just when I was starting to get my mind off this bullshit. _

"It's not all bad," Sylar pointed out. "The article mentions The Museum of Natural History. We have a specific location now."

"But I like that building," Claire said gloomily. "Couldn't they have built their big death machine under the art museum? It's not like anyone would miss _that._"

Peter sat up, mock-scolding her. "You of all people should appreciate art. Isaac's paintings led me to you, remember?"

A playful snicker escaped her mouth as she patted him on the shin. "Yeah, but I don't think they've added any Mendez's to the National Gallery, now have they?"

"If all goes well and we stop them," Sylar said carefully, "it won't matter where they've built it."

Claire's demeanor turned sober again and she peered at the taller brother with respect. "You're right. And the whole Smithsonian would have taken days to search, but now we at least know where to look. That's a start."

"We?" Peter nudged her in the arm, drawing her attention to him again. "Define 'we' for me_."_

"Did you listen to me at all?" she alleged self-righteously. "You need someone to keep your ass out of trouble."

"She has a point," Sylar smartly put in. Peter glared.

"I'll have you to do that for me, _brothe_r," he said tightly, purely as a means to an end. Claire scoffed kindly, as though he was a naïve child, innocent and dumb to his own smugness.

"Oh, please. I've never seen you come back from a mission in one piece, Peter," the young woman pointed out. "You're either scarred or shot up or _dead_. Trust me. You need someone to take a bullet for you every once in a while."

She leaned down and pressed a quick peck of a kiss to his nose, and Peter forgot the entire argument with that small show of affection. Claire only meant well, just like he did. But looking out for each other's well-being was bound to clash every once in a while when they both became _too _over-protective.

Claire stretched her arms, grabbing Sylar and Peter's hands with each of her own. "You guys want some coffee?" Claire asked apologetically.

Sylar looked up from the newspaper and Peter stopped staring off into space. Both of the brothers locked their gazes on the radiant young woman between them, and the tense mood was dissolved once again. The man on Claire's left loved her like a compassionate older brother, and the man on her other sideloved her in a way that _no one_ ever had. Yet both Peter and Sylar squeezed her hands with equal firmness and sincerity, providing answers to her question.

"Two creams, two sugars," Peter said amiably. Claire rolled her eyes.

"I knew that," she replied perkily. She gently slid Peter's legs off her lap and set them back down on the couch. "And you, Sylar?"

"I'll have the same," he replied mildly.

Claire's stayed bright for the next few hours as the trio downed several mugs of coffee with each other's life stories on the side. Near midnight, when Sophia and her dastardly plans had successfully been put on the backburner, Peter vaguely wondered if this is how Jesus felt on the night of the Last Supper. Whether or not the man with the hands of a miracle-worker really knew what was to be of his future, and if he could have even _done_ anything about it.

Peter decided, if destiny was to have its way with him in the next twenty-four hours, then so be it. After so many years of danger and terror, death was the least of his worries. He planned on doing whatever it took to not only keep Claire and Sylar safe, but to avenge every metahuman who'd been bar-coded or persecuted, and to slaughter Sophia Linderman until she begged for death to pull her down into its blackest pits. Peter Petrelli was going to finally save the world, even if it meant throwing away his one chance at salvation.

He could only hope that God would have mercy on his soul this time around.

xxx

_Chapter Twenty:_

"_The Ten Commandments"_

_Coming Soon_

xxx


	21. The Ten Commandments

**Thanks for all the kind reviews, as usual. And also as usual, I don't own anyone here except Sophia. ) **

**Chapter Twenty**

"**The Ten Commandments"**

The trials of revolution had given Peter many skills over the years; some supernatural and some simply the talents of a weathered soldier. One of his more useful powers was the ability to set his mental alarm clock, making his body wake up whenever he pleased.

While he drifted off to sleep, circa midnight, with Claire's bare body in his arms, he set it to roughly five AM. And, as expected, just as the sun was peaking over the horizon of Washington D.C, Peter's tired eyes opened to meet the daybreak.

The house was as quiet as a church. Not even the ceiling fan made a sound as it hypnotically spun, round and round above their heads. Peter broke the silence by shifting slightly in his covers, triggering various creaks and ruffles as the bed replied.

Claire was still deep into slumber, her lips parted and chapped. Peter longed to kiss them, to take the dryness and chill away, but he knew that would wake her. Then again, Claire seemed to be so lost in sleep that Gettysburg probably wouldn't arouse her from her dreams.

Peter didn't chance it. He ever-so-gently slipped his arms away from her, moistening his own lips. As soon as his body was away from hers, a small whimper came out of her throat. She shivered, her body curling into itself to keep warm.

Claire's covers were down around her waist, so every inch of flawless flesh on her upper body was open to the cold. The skin on her arms and back was prickled with goosebumps from the frigid air, every little blonde hair standing upright. The only things protected and warmed were her lovely breasts. Claire's arms crossed over them so just her flushed, rounded cleavage was visible.

Peter gently grabbed the top hem of her sheets and pulled them up to his lover's shoulders, sheltering her from the merciless air conditioning. A thankful moan came from Claire as her body shimmied down into the covers, burying herself in newfound heat.

The elated young man smiled and allowed himself one kiss to her cheek before sliding out of the bed to start a new day.

xxx

When Claire woke up hours later, Peter was nowhere to be seen.

She didn't notice at first. As her mind slowly meandered into consciousness, she automatically assumed he was lying naked beside her, just as sunken into the mattress as she. But with the first tentative move of her leg, her heart rate sped up when she didn't bump into anything.

"Peter?" Claire drowsily groaned. She rolled over and spread out her limbs, physically searching for any sign that she wasn't alone. But the toes of both feet reached the sides of the bed, and all that was left of Peter was his scent on the pillows.

Claire sat up too fast, dizzying herself with a blinding headrush. "Peter?" she called again. She craned her head and looked into her master bathroom, but he was absent from there too.

A quick glance at the clock told her it was 11:32. Claire couldn't even recall the last time she had slept so late. Between an FBI job at the crack of dawn and saving the world with their little golden trio, there hadn't been much time to get all her winks.

Claire's joints, though unbreakable, moved like the Tin Man's from the Wizard of Oz. The entire process of getting out of bed, throwing her surprisingly neat hair into a ponytail, and putting on some almost-normal clothes took far longer than it should have. But in the end, she at least looked decent. If anything, underneath her T-shirt and jeans and no-fuss hair, she was glowing quite radiantly.

If asked by anyone other than Sylar or Peter, Claire would have blamed her shine simply on the great sex. But she knew deep down it was _love _that was truly liable- sheer, undeniable love for Peter that threatened to make her heart explode out of her chest. She'd always loved him in one way or the other: first as a teenage schoolgirl crushing on her white knight, then as family (with the occasional illicit thoughts). Even when they reunited and she saw what a shell of a man he'd become…even _then _she was a little bit in love with him, but that was mostly spurred by pity. However, now…now Claire Bennet could only think and breathe him in the purest way possibleShe let the aroma of his body, still lingering all throughout the room, seep into her lungs until her knees felt weak.

There was one main difference between the affection she felt for him now, and all those other times. Claire loved him for no other reason than for who he _was. _She didn't care about his actions, or whatever title he was going by, be it "hero" or "uncle". Claire loved _Peter. _She lovedevery bone in his body that been thrice broken and re-healed by her essence. She loved his imperfections: the crooked smile, the scars that etched valor into his skin for eternity, the slight hero-complex.

And most importantly of all, she loved that he cherished_ her_ in return, for that was far more valuable than any ring, kiss, or night of passion that he could give her.

She looked over at her- no, _their- _messy bed, and her joy went a little dull. Claire had hoped that the first thing she would see in the morning, this day and every day for the rest of her life, would be Peter beaming at her. Or, at the very least, his arm wrapped around her body, keeping her warm.

_Oh well, _she thought. _Welcome to real life. _

All she really had the power to do at this point was to go downstairs and look for him.

The first thing Claire saw as she descended the staircase was a lanky, dark-haired frame curled up in her favorite living room recliner. As she advanced further down, she saw the man to be Sylar, long limbs pulled to his body and a hardback novel held in his tapered fingers.

Though she liked Sylar and all, Claire had to admit she was a little disappointed.

Sylar looked up from his book, which Claire recognized on closer inspection as _A Midsummer Night's Dream. _His sharply angled face was warm and inviting, as if this was his home _she _was visiting instead of the other way around.

"Good morning, Claire," he said brightly, putting the book down, open-faced, on his lap. "It looks like you slept well."

Claire nodded absentmindedly, almost forgetting to greet him back. "Er…yeah. Twelve hours, I think."

"I doubt you were sleeping for all twelve of them, though," Sylar wisely remarked.

Claire took a moment out of her unease for Peter to gape at him, scandalized. She scoffed. "Oh, ha-_ha_."

Peter's brother was not ashamed or abashed. "Don't look at me. You asked for it when you pestered me about Niki on the ride home."

The embarrassment washed off of Claire's face with a smile. She dug the tip of one foot into the carpet before lightheartedly owning up, "Okay. I guess _I did_ sort of ask for it."

Once their banter was out of the way, her concern about Peter came crawling back. She went solemn and quietly asked. "Um…do know where Peter is?"

"Sorry. He was gone when I woke up," Sylar informed her. "But he did leave a note." The man pointed to a yellow Post-it note stuck to a cabinet in the kitchen. Claire looked back at him in curiosity before stepping into the other room, her hand reaching for the small piece of paper.

She scanned over it and rolled her eyes slightly at Peter's messy penmanship.

_Claire and Sylar-_

_Went to run an errand. I'll be back around noon_

_(and I'll pick up lunch on the way home)._

_Love, Peter_

"An errand?" Claire frowned, heading back to the living room with Peter's note still in hand. She looked up and peered at Sylar. "What errand?"

"Perhaps he wants to surprise you," Sylar suggested with a sly smirk, pretending to be interested in his shoelaces.

Claire crossed her arms and tried to look exasperated with him, but the blush of her cheeks and humble shifting of her shoulders gave her true elation away. "D'you know more than you're telling me?"

Sylar sat back in the recliner and sighed. "Truthfully, no. But why else would he be out? The world's about to end. I doubt he needs groceries and socks."

Claire giggled and stuck the Post-it playfully to Sylar's forehead. "You're right, as usual."

Sylar took the sticky note off his face and set it between two pages of _A Midsummer Night's Dream,_ craftily using it as a bookmark. Just as he set the novel back on Claire's end table, the far off noise of a door opening, accompanied by the rustling of plastic bags, sounded throughout the house.

"Hey! I'm back!"

Had Sylar not known better, he would have thought Claire had super-speed in addition to indestructibility. She went from mulling about the living room to helping Peter all in the period of about three seconds.

"I can get it, Claire," Peter chuckled, pulling the bag out of her reach. "Go sit down. I'll be there in a second."

"Why did you go out?" she persisted, ignoring his suggestion. "Don't tell me you spent all that time getting sandwiches."

Peter did not reply right away. He set down their lunch on the kitchen table and casually leaned against the island before finally answering her question.

"I was…" He hesitated, and lowered his voice. "I was just at the bank." Off her confused look, he clarified, "Checking on my trust fund. It's been bugging me lately."

Claire accepted his answer well enough, but her instincts ribbed her to question him further. "You picked a weird time to look it up."

He shrugged. "I'm in town. Besides, the situation tonight has the potential to go really bad, whether we like or not."

"What, so you expect to _die?"_

Peter tenderly took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye, calming her with his silent conviction. "I'm not expecting anything. I'm just making a Plan B, so, if worst-case scenario happens, we'll be taken care of. I mean, it doesn't even have to do with me_ dying._ What if we lose and Sophia activates the machine? This whole house would be gone. That money could save you some trouble with that. It's just extra insurance, Claire. No big deal."

He sealed his words with a reassuring kiss to her forehead, and he went back to preparing lunch.

Claire uncomfortably rubbed her arm, not entirely soothed. "How long have you been gone?"

Peter distracted himself with digging through the bag, getting out everyone's lunches. "I think I left at ten."

"Really? I thought I heard you get up around five."

There was a beat, and for a split second, Peter's stopped in his busying about. But in another blink of an eye, he was back to normal. "Bathroom," he casually replied. "I came back to bed after that, but you must have gone to sleep again."

"Yeah," Claire murmured. She looked up and stared at him, Peter, with his handsome face and unusually good mood. The man telekinetically removed three plates from the cupboard and all the needed utensils, setting the table in a perfectly organized manner. Whether Peter was a true Petrelli or not, Angela still raised him, and his neat freak rearing had a tendency to show in times like this.

Claire felt awkward, just standing there, watching him do all the work. Thus, she headed to the refrigerator to work on getting the drinks ready. The blaze and buzz she felt when she woke up had diminished a bit. Even after all of Peter's explanations, she still felt like she didn't have the whole picture.

The young woman took an ice tray out of her freezer and clumsily dumped the contents into three separate glasses. She took a deep breath, paused, and looked up at Peter once again.

"Peter?"

He was unwrapping a sandwich that looked sort of like turkey on rye. He didn't look at her. "Mmhmm?"

"I love you," she timidly stated.

This time, Peter's stop in motion was obvious. His gaze was suddenly locked upon Claire, and he tentatively set the sandwich down on a plate, almost missing the ceramic dish entirely.

Without warning, an unknown light took over his dark features. He picked up the plate and walked over to her, a very clever, Peter-ish look on his face.

"Take a bite of this."

Claire felt like she'd been slapped in the face. Didn't he hear her at _all?_ "Peter-." But his insistent expression and undeniable nudging told her that there was something deeper to this.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she took the sandwich from him. Yet Claire looked deeply into his striking observance of her, now somber, and her heart cracked a bit. She hadn't realized how important this was to him. It reminded her of the typical Peter of old- just trying to be sweet.

So she chose to indulge him by sinking her teeth in as enthusiastically as possible. She bit into the turkey and rye and lettuce and tomatoes, as expected. And one other ingredient that made a loud _crunch. _

Claire's eyes widened and she set her lunch back down on the plate, hardly knowing what to say. Her heart suddenly filled with emotion and all doubts about Peter were vaporized.

"You put potato chips on my sandwich!" Claire exclaimed, her face lighting up like a Christmas tree. Peter seemed proud and modest at the same time, sort of like how one appears when their friend unwraps a gift from them.

"But…but how did you know?"

"Because I love you too," he answered serenely, before pressing his all-telling lips against hers. Claire melted as soon as they made contact, and if she wasn't so hungry, she wouldn't have minded pulling him into the nearest closet and having a little repeat of last night…

Yet Peter broke off their kiss before it could get anywhere near that. And, as much as Claire would be content to simply lean against the counter with him and indolently make out, Sylar's abrupt entering of the room stopped that from happening too.

"Claire?" said a low, intelligent voice from behind her "Please tell me that Helena ends up with Demetrius."

Claire tried to remember _A Midsummer Night's Dream _from high school. "Uh…I think everyone ends up together in the end. It's a comedy, not a tragedy."

Sylar sighed in relief. "Good. Hermia has two men that want her and Helena's all alone. That not exactly balanced."

"Don't worry," Peter replied, smirking. "I'm sure 'Helena' has a 'Niki-a' out there somewhere that wants to date her."

Sylar gave his brother a sardonic stare. "Very funny, Lysander."

"Is that book what took you so long to come out here?" Peter asked, slapping Sylar's ham-and-cheese on a slightly cracked dish.

"I wanted to get to the end of Act III. It's really starting to pick up."

Peter handed him the sandwich with a respectful but bewildered smile. "You're the only one I know who reads Shakespeare for _fun." _

"Oh, please," Claire snorted from the table. "Shakespeare's an easy read. Try reading some Nathaniel Hawthorne or _Beowulf_. That's when it really starts to suck."

Peter shuddered. "May 29, 1998. Best day of my life."

Sylar quickly did the math in his head. "Your graduation?"

"Uh-huh. I've never envied you more, brother. You don't remember _a thing_ about high school."

Peter reached for his own sandwich as he sat down on a barstool. However, his joviality suddenly waned, slowly dissolving off his face until he was downright frowning.

"I'm gonna go put up my jacket," he announced, standing up. His fingers were already working to peel off his coat. "You guys go ahead and dig in. I'll be right back."

Peter wasn't sure if they didn't care, if they were good actors, or if they simply didn't notice the alarm that had passed his face just seconds ago. But by some miracle, as Sylar and Claire were occupied with their sandwiches, neither one of them noticed the real reason for Peter's departure: a suspicious, thin white envelope peeking out of his back trouser pocket.

He practically skated his way to the front foyer, paranoia kicking in as he began to feel non-existent eyes staring at his back. Peter opened the door to the coat closet and carelessly threw his jacket inside. When the door to the closet closed again, Peter was gone, having seemingly evaporated into thin air.

Well, not exactly; Peter was merely twelve feet above Sylar and Claire's heads as he tiptoed into the master bedroom, right after making a swift teleportation upstairs. He hadn't yet explored the whole house, so Claire's room would have to harbor his ink scripted secret for now.

Peter approached the vanity in the corner of the room, his eyes fixated on the small wooden drawer beneath its tabletop. He pulled open the drawer, saw that it was filled with old batteries and headphones and useless junk that Claire probably _never _looked for. He couldn't have asked for a better hiding place.

Yet he still stuck his crisp white envelope under a few other papers for good measure. It was better to be safe than sorry.

"Peter?!" hollered a female voice from downstairs. "Where are you?"

"Upstairs!" he immediately yelled back. "I'll be there in a minute!"

Peter turned back to the drawer and took a deep breath before gently pushing it shut. And then, with the frightening air of Angela Petrelli, he went back to brunch as though nothing had occurred.

xxx

It was midday, about an hour after their surprise lunch, when Claire finally entered her room. She expected it to be empty; on the contrary, a wiry, brunette young man was in her desk chair, scribbling into a spiral notebook.

Claire clutched her chest in surprise. "I didn't know you were in here."

Peter looked up, equally as startled. "Oh…hey."

Though his eyes were locked with hers, his hands moved of their own accord, quickly shutting the notebook. However much he tried to make the movement surreptitious, Claire, raised by a spy and trained in the FBI, was too smart for that.

"Whatcha writing?" she asked with innocent curiosity, making her way over to him. Peter's hands instinctively wanted to quiver, but he reached out with his mind, forcing them to stay calm.

He swallowed. "It's nothin'. Just a plan. I'm trying to get my thoughts together."

Claire cocked her head. "Well, I'm going on the mission too. Can I see?"

Peter pulled open the desk drawer and slipped the notebook inside. As soon as the cupboard was shut again, his muscles automatically relaxed. "Don't worry about it," he casually brushed off her question. "It's practically illegible, trust me."

Claire slowly nodded, only half-believing him, but still not wanting to press another issue into the ground. She'd been clingy _enough _for one day, she recognized with a cringe.

So instead, her voice took on a businesslike tone. "Can you use Molly's power to find Sophia? Is she in Washington yet?"

"Good idea," Peter acknowledged, sitting back in the chair to loosen his body. "Just gimme a minute."

His eyes closed and, however painful it was to think about the fiery Linderman woman, it was _not _hard to get a vivid image of her. Knowing a person well helps make this go faster, Molly once told him.

"She's still on the plane," Peter declared after a few seconds, eyelids still lowered. "I think…I think she's about an hour away, flying time."

He shook off the vision and brought himself back to reality, focusing on Claire's shapely body in his corporal sight to bring him back to Earth. But when Peter's gaze rose back to its normal place, her countenance, he saw with disappointment that Claire's teeth worked at her lower lip in anxiety.

"I can't believe she's actually doing this," she whispered. "We've been talking about it for a long time, but…I always felt like it would never really _happen, _you know?_"_

Peter touched her arm in a chaste, comforting caress. "I do. I felt the same way the first time I saw Isaac's paintings of you."

"What made you do it?"

"Do what? Come and rescue you?"

Claire gently ran her fingertips down the side of his face, across the scar that was now dulled and slightly faded with time. "Yeah. It could have been a wild goose chase."

"But it wasn't. It was an innocent girl's life on the line," Peter reminded her firmly. "Your life."

She ducked her head in sheepishness. Peter lowered his hands to her waist and lovingly pulled her into his lap, their faces now just a few inches apart.

"You didn't know I was the cheerleader back then."

"I didn't care," Peter huskily insisted. "You looked so…_terrified_ in those paintings. And I just kept thinking about how sixteen-year-olds shouldn't have to face things like that."

"We were facing Sylar," Claire recalled, her voice beginning to choke. "_Our _Sylar, Peter. I can't even_ believe _that. I love him to death as your brother but I don't…was that really the same man that threw you off the balcony? That shoved a piece of glass in your head? That killed _Jackie_?"

"It doesn't matter. He brought us together, didn't he?" Peter's smile was crooked and infectious, spurring a grin to come out of Claire as well.

"I guess he kind of did," she admitted.

They stared at each other for several long seconds, both waiting for the other to do something, or maybe nothing. The comfortable silence was rather nice sometimes. It consoled, it spoke, it soothed.

Peter craned forward to brush a kiss across the corner of her mouth, but he missed his chance by just a hair. Apparently, Claire's acceptance of their situation truly started to sink in, enough where her mind was on another matter now: something not nearly as pleasant as her lover.

Sophia.

Claire untangled herself from his body and didn't bother to smooth out the creases in her t-shirt. Peter could read her like a book, though he didn't know if that was his problem or hers. She clearly had nothing bad to say about him, but behind her eyes were cogwheels of anxiety and meditation.

Peter recognized the exact same look radiating from her as she watched him driving through New York traffic to Kirby Plaza, all those years ago.

"Keep working on that plan, okay?" Claire interrupted his thoughts with her motherly-Claire voice.

Peter's reaction time was dim. "Plan?"

The young woman gestured to the desk drawer, frowning slightly. "The one you were working on when I came in."

"Oh! Right." Peter's voice trailed off as he ran a thumb over his lips, phasing into concentration again. Claire headed towards the doorway, to leave him to his thoughts, before a musing of her own creation stumbled out of her mouth.

"And Peter?" she asked, turning around and resting her fingertips against the doorframe. Peter squinted at her fingers, which tapped innocently on the wood, and it seemed _so _familiar to him, but damn if he couldn't place it.

"What?" he softly responded.

Claire's cheeks pinked, but her face radiated confidence. "Thanks for shooting me, two weeks ago."

Peter smirked. "I can't say the same about you smacking me afterwards."

Claire giggled. "You were right, though. That saved my life. Again."

She fully expected one of two things from him: a witty retort or a humble rebuttal. One was the side of this new, darker Peter that she was just now getting used to, and the other would make her heart melt with the Peter of her childhood; the gallant hero with the emo hair that threw himself off bridges and buildings to save her life.

But what he _actually _said was much quieter and shy, a reflection on the Peter who had molded himself out of her resin. The man whose love for her controlled his every action. The man who was a merger of many faulty models which somehow made a perfect product.

"You're welcome, Claire-bear. You would have done the same for me. "

xxx

Nathan had used the euphemism "boot on my neck" in reference to Sophia more than once in his life. But later that day, as soon as the redhead arrived in Washington, it became a literal reality.

The President squirmed as Sophia's heel dug into his jugular. "My daughter has informed me that you went mysteriously absent for a couple hours yesterday afternoon. Care to tell us what you were up to? A round of golf with the Secretary of State, maybe?"

"The Secretary of State is more of a billiards guy, actually," Nathan snarked back through his pain. Sophia pressed harder down on his neck and he bit back a hiss.

"Well if that's the case," Sophia gaily replied, "then you must have been out for a different reason. And by all means, withhold information, please. I'm dying to watch some good torture."

Nathan let out a grim chuckle. "I can handle torture."

"Yes. But you handle _death?_"

For once, the President was empowered by her words rather than degraded by them. "You're not going to kill me. You want the information I carry. I can't tell you when I'm dead."

Linderman let out an incoherent sound, somewhere between a moan and a thoughtful hum. "Haven't you grown clever?" she confessed, a note in her voice that sounded almost _impressed. _"Indeed."

She released him from her makeshift guillotine and began pacing the conference room, her steps leading her around the edges of the huge board table. Nathan's body wanted to shiver in fear, but his military mask was on today. He couldn't let her smell his dread. Even more importantly, he couldn't let her take what he knew. Revealing that Peter planned on attacking her was one thing. It probably wasn't that much of a shock anyway. But spilling the beans on his daughter's whereabouts, his own plans, and various other things they talked about in their clandestine meeting was a totally other ballgame of privacy.

"As much as I'd like to do this the slow, hard, painful way, time is of the essence. I'll have to rip it out of you." Sophia pulled her cell phone from her waistband, but before pressing a number on the speed dial, she peered up at him deviously. "And after that, we shall_ then_ see how much you really fear death."

The older woman turned away and muttered into her phone for hardly a minute as Nathan stood on the other side of the room, cracking his throbbing neck. Sophia had barely snapped her phone shut before Elisa Thayer slipped into the room.

"You want me to do this, Mom?" Elisa arched an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted him all to yourself."

Sophia tsked and waved a hand in Nathan's direction, shooing her daughter over to him as if he was a mess she had to clean up. "No time for frivolity today. We've hardly two hours to spare before the launch. I want to know if there's any plans he's hiding."

She glanced quickly at Elisa, who took the cue. The younger woman walked to where Nathan was, his frame tall and scowling, and she pulled out a chair for him.

"Sit," the daughter said tersely. Nathan glowered at her but followed her order. He knew when to give and when to take.

Elisa remained standing behind him, hovering over his shoulder and practically breathing down his neck with her menacing presence.

Sophia stopped at the edge of the conference table, pressing her slender hands upon the table. "Where were you, Nathan?"

"Just takin' a stroll. Might have run into a couple people on the way," Nathan replied evenly.

Sophia's brow crinkled, but she didn't punish him just yet. "And who might you have run into?" she continued. Nathan felt Elisa's fingers slide onto his shoulders, her nails digging sharply into his jacket.

"That's where it becomes a bit fuzzy," Nathan said pleasantly. "I think it might have been Peter. He kept going on about how he's gonna kick your ass."

"Peter Petrelli is dead," Sophia bitterly answered.

Nathan's voice was nearly proud. "Actually, unless he managed to miraculously turn mortal in the past twenty-four hours, to my knowledge, he's uh, pretty damn alive."

He internally smirked as he saw Sophia's confidence begin to crumble. Yet he had to admit, the woman was one tough broad. For what it was worth, she handled figurative blows to the gut rather well.

Unfortunately for Nathan, "handling her pain" didn't fare well for himself. Sophia gestured to Elisa, and the younger redhead tightened her grip on Nathan's collarbone. The man screamed as his cells were ripped apart, every individual molecule that Elisa touched rotting with the force of her ability. She eventually let go, and on another prompt from her mother, she brushed a hand over Nathan's black wounds. The flesh came back to life miraculously as Elisa revived the cells. If she'd had her own way, she would have _left _Nathan with his minor case of St. Anthony's Fire.

Elisa Thayer could control the death _or _life of any organism by touching it. Of course, the very building blocks of humans, cells, were also organisms, and Elisa had trained for years to learn how to focus her energy on those individual living chambers. On a broader spectrum, she could kill Nathan's entire being just by touching him, but Mama Linderman wasn't done with the eldest Petrelli quite yet.

The politician winced and shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake off the ache that Elisa just evoked on him. He had gotten used to her power by now, having been tortured by it many a time. But Nathan was at least thankful that he had to face Elisa rather then Sophia's shadow creature.

Sophia moved closer to him. "Fine, then. You say you saw Petrelli. Where is he now?"

Nathan pretended to think it over a bit before sardonically answering, "I don't think I'm at liberty to answer that question."

Elisa's hands quickly wrapped around his neck and he screamed, the fire of death frightening his sensitive cells. A few moments later, even when it was all over, Nathan was still panting as this neck pulsated.

"If you don't where Peter is," Sophia restarted, beginning to grow impatient. "Then perhaps you know where we could find Claire, hmm? You know, they might even be staying together. It'd be a good place to start looking."

Nathan's smugness turned to stoic honor as soon as his daughter's name came out of Sophia's mouth.

"You don't go near my daughter."

"I'll think _I'll _be the judge of that. Elisa? If you will, please."

Elisa nodded and repeated her torture procedure once again, yet this time, it was on Nathan's chest. The man took it well, with a grunt and a shudder, before Sophia went back to her questioning.

"Where are your friends, Nathan? Where are Peter and Claire?"

Her shadow, a shapely minx in all black made itself known, slipping out of the darkness of the corner to stand beside her host. Nathan's eyes narrowed, though his bones started to tremble with trepidation.

"I don't know."

Elisa moved to give Nathan another cellular roasting, but Sophia raised a hand to stop her child. Elisa frowned, but backed off, waiting for her mother to take the lead. Nathan glanced back at the FBI Agent, only now realizing what a demanding chokehold Sophia Linderman held over everyone. Elisa Thayer intimidated him on a normal day, but when the woman was before her mother, she turned into an obedient soldier.

"Tell. Me," Sophia seethed, her normally cool demeanor thrown onto an open fire of fury.

Nathan looked past his interrogator, to the silhouette creeping up behind her. Her shadow was looming even more chillingly in the background, stretching higher and higher until it almost hit the ceiling and-

"TELL ME _NOW_!"

The wispy black dusk snapped from it's position, headed right towards Nathan's heart at eighty miles an hour. But Nathan's soldier sense and power of flight were faster, and he shot up into the air right as Sophia's shaded clone whipped viciously under his dress shoes.

And without warning, a staggered gasp came out of Elisa Thayer's throat, her hands clutched around her waist in horror.

Nathan could smell it before he saw it: the stench of burning flesh that rose up to greet him. He winced and lowered himself to the ground, surreptitiously ducking under the conference table while the other two were…distracted, to say the least.

Elisa looked down at her hands, which were covered with dried blood and ash. And where her entire abdominal cavity used to be, there was a huge, charred gap. Sophia's shadow had just burned a hole right through her.

"Mother," Nathan heard Elisa choke. Right after, the FBI agent's final note was accompanied by the sounds of a chair toppling and a body hitting the floor.

From under the table, the President could see Sophia's smooth legs and red high heels stampeding over to where her offspring had fallen. The daughter who had just died by Sophia's own hand, manslaughter or not.

Nathan was shaking like a leaf for a hundred different reasons. For one, he'd almost just had his entrails vaporized (something Elisa Thayer wasn't nearly as lucky in escaping). And now, he was in a tiny room with a psychotic murdering matriarch and the corpse of her dead daughter.

Sophia's frame shook as her rage was harnessed and diluted. She stared down the blank white wall with a gaze of hellfire and unstably proclaimed, "Petrelli…everything will proceed according to plan. Even if you send the wrath of your fellowman, this city _will_ burn by my hands."

She let Elisa's cadaver leave her arms as she rose to her feet and stormed towards the exit. But just before she shouldered her way through the doors of the board room, Nathan Petrelli's strained voice halted her in her tracks. The man was on his feet now, hair tousled and suit dirty, but still standing tall.

"What about Peter?" he challenged halfheartedly. "Peter and his people. They won't let you get away with this."

Sophia's teeth were bared like a lioness repressing her hunger. She turned stiffly on her heel to face Nathan and her daughter's burnt corpse, her expression one of raw steel.

"Then let them come," she seethed. Her nails dug into her palms so sharply that tiny beads of blood began to surface on her skin. "Let them come, and let them die."

As she finally left Nathan to his thoughts, Sophia did not look back. True Lindermans never did.

xxx

_Chapter Twenty-One_

"_The Golden Rule"_

_Coming Soon_

_xxx_


	22. The Golden Rule

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"**The Golden Rule"**

Peter stared down at the composition book in his hands, at the two pages of scrawled, but legible writing. At least he hoped it was legible. If it wasn't, the whole thing would be rather pointless.

With a trembling hand, he signed his name at the bottom and ripped the sheets out. Then, he folded the papers to as small as they'd go, and jammed it into his jacket's inside pocket. He'd considered leaving it here, to be found at a later time. Still, Peter decided a few minutes ago to carry it on his person.

And just as he was sitting back in his seat, closing his eyes in grief, his short-lived moment of solace shattered.

Nathan was coming.

Peter's eyes shot open and he shook the vision off. He'd let his mind wander to what awaited him in merely a few hours, and that had brought up, with Molly's ability, scenes of Sophia and Nathan. Sophia was in town, that much he had gathered when her plane landed, but Nathan…

He didn't think of Nathan much, though mentally viewing his step-brother flying at the speed of sound across Washington D.C, headed towards Georgetown, was a hard sight to ignore. Peter groaned under his breath and stood up from the rolling chair. There were days when he didn't fancy talking to Nathan when they were _family, _let alone now, as his daughter's boyfriend.

It was only when Peter thought of Claire that he remembered the vow he made to Nathan. The vow he'd yet to keep.

Peter swore loudly and went careening out the door, down the hall, and into Claire's bedroom. She was getting changed into more catlike clothing, which would help her more in a fight then an old band tee and sweat pants. Her freshly washed hair was up in a slick bun.

"Claire, you need to hide!"

Claire stopped in the lacing of her shin-high combat boots. "What?"

Peter grasped her urgently by the arms. "Nathan's coming and I promised I'd teleport you out of town, which obviously, I didn't."

"Dammit, Peter!" Claire wrenched herself out of his hands. "Are you ever gonna stop my making decisions for me?" She loved him, there was no doubt about that, but that _one _little habit of Peter's made her want to rip out her hair.

"He's your father," Peter retorted. "He only wants what's best for you. Just like I do."

"What's best for me is not locking me in a box while you go out and get yourself killed," Claire spat back. She grabbed a sleek silver pistol off her vanity and tucked it into a holster on her chest. "Why do you do this to me all the freakin' time? You know I can kick ass just as good as you, and I can heal from anything! What's the deal?!"

Peter clenched his fist, but held it at his side as he eventually proclaimed, "Because I can't stand to lose you again!"

"You never lost me," Claire quietly replied after a flash of ugly silence. "You _ran _from me."

"Yeah, I ran away, and because of that, because of what _I did, _I didn't see you for four years. That felt bad enough. If I ended up being responsible for something really bad happening to you…I don't know what I'd do with myself."

Claire stared at his flushed face, desperate eyes, and white knuckles, and it was hard for her not to feel the bubble of anger that she harbored start to dissolve.

She looked to the floor, and stiffly said, "You know many times I've lost _you_? How many times I've seen you dead? Even after all of that, I have _never _tried to stop you from saving the world."

"But I know you want to," Peter wisely said. He almost winked. "I just have better selective hearing than you do."

Claire snorted a little, and looked up at his compassionate face, which Peter was rubbing tiredly. He wanted nothing more then for her to be there, fighting against his back. It was the fear of what _could _happen that weighed him down.

He came to a decision and reluctantly declared, "I'm gonna lie to Nathan, okay? I'm gonna tell him I sent you somewhere. But because I trust you, you can come with us tonight. Under one condition."

Claire rolled her eyes. "What? Do I have to hold your hand the entire time?"

"No, I swear. Just…," he moistened his lips, "if anything happens, do everything I tell you to do, even if I'm lying on the ground with a leg cut off. I don't care what happens to me, I want you to run the hell away."

"Do as you say, not as you do, then?" Claire arched an eyebrow. "Honestly. I know you'd go back for _me." _

"For sure," Peter admitted. "But this is your chance to be stronger than me."

Claire's mouth was a slash for a few seconds, before she reached into her coat pocket and removed the gun. She held it with confidence and a trained hand, her face full of fierce determination.

"I don't think we're gonna have to worry about that. Cause as long as I breathe, _nothing _is going to happen to you."

xxx

When Peter opened the door, Nathan's hand was raised in a loose fist, as if he was preparing to knock. The politician glanced back and forth from his hand to Peter, prompting the younger man to sigh.

"Yeah, I was expecting you. Get inside."

Nathan walked under the entrance that he'd passed through so many times before. Claire's place hadn't changed much since the last time he was here, though it had gotten a bit dusty while his daughter had been wrapped up in saving the world.

Peter noticed Nathan's ruffled hair and untucked shirt and he cordially commented, "You flew here?"

Nathan nodded silently. "It was the fastest way for me to warn you about Sophia."

"I know she's in town," Peter stated. "I've been watching her with Molly's power."

"Did you see her kill her daughter?"

The air went tense and the conversation turned into something that wasn't nearly as casual as before. "She killed her _daughter?" _Peter confirmed. His head spun. "No. I…uh…I didn't see that."

Nathan's eyes narrowed grimly, more at the whole situation than at Peter himself. "That damn shadow of hers burnt a hole right through Elisa Thayer. It would have been _me_ if I hadn't flown away."

"Why are you telling me this?" Peter frowned, musing. "What, do you think she's gonna be 'extra pissed' now?"

"Exactly," Nathan said gravelly. He struggled with his next words, rubbing a harsh hand over his brow. "Pete, I don't think you can win this. Sophia's gonna be like a bat out of hell tonight. She was a tough broad to begin with, but tonight, I don't know if she's defeatable. Plus, she knows you're alive, and that you want to try and stop her, so she'll be prepared on top of everything else."

"Good. Then she can have her evil villain monologue all ready when I go to kill her," Peter said, mock chipper. The faux smile melted off of his face, and his voice turned into a low growl. "Nathan. She's still human. She still can bleed. And I'll do anything to see it."

"Don't be an idiot," glared Nathan. "At least admit that she's dangerous."

"I know she's a threat," Peter calmly said. "But I know how she works, too. As for _you…_you need to get as far away as you can. Take Heidi and the boys and just _run. _Get out of town. They can replace the White House. They can't replace you guys."

"I already sent my family to Canada," Nathan responded. "I'm hiding them from Sophia." And then Nathan finally pulled out the whopper of all questions, the one Peter had been dreading:

"And what about Claire? Is she safe too?"

Peter tried not to let his eyes drift towards the staircase. "I sent her to stay with some friends in Boston," he smoothly lied. "Just like you told me to."

The politician's gaze scanned him up and down, searching for a kernel of falsehood. But after all Peter had been through, he had gotten good at twisting reality into fiction by now.

"Thank you," Nathan muttered, staring his foster brother in the eye. "And, though your relationship with her is from…weird circumstances…I know you want to protect her just as much as I do."

_Ouch, _Peter thought, feeling Nathan's guilt trip stab him right in the abdomen. But he didn't show a single sign of discomfort. He'd lived with Nathan for the entirety of his childhood, and he knew how this man worked. Nathan would pretend like he bought the fib, but then add one little zing after to double check his opponent's truthfulness.

"She means everything to me," Peter replied candidly. "I'd never want to see anything happen to her."

This time, Nathan was harder to read. His brow was slightly furrowed in what seemed like anger, but his eyes crinkled in consideration too. Then, his hand appeared on Peter's shoulder out of nowhere, giving it a composed squeeze of comradeship.

Nathan said nothing, but his piercing hazel study of Peter tore the younger man apart. He kept peeling back the layers until eventually saw the very core of Peter' rapidly beating heart. The heart that, he recognized with bittersweet goodbye, now belonged to Claire.

The President's arm fell away and he reached for the doorknob, all in one motion. He made his way through the doorframe before turning his head. Peter could see a profile of Nathan's face, the side which still had a very feint trace of a car accident scar near his mouth.

"For what it's worth…I'm glad Claire has someone to take care of her. Even if it isn't me anymore."

And then he was gone as quickly as he had come, ripping through the atmosphere and shattering the speed of sound. As Peter watched Claire's father fly off into the horizon, he couldn't help but feel guilty. After all, that was about as close to a blessing as Nathan was ever going to give him.

xxx

The ride to the National Mall from Claire's house was not short, but it passed in the blink of an eye. Sylar was behind the wheel, nearly running over a few little old ladies and getting the bird flipped at him from several other people. He couldn't help but have his head in the mud on a night like this. It could be full of death, destruction, loss. He even absently wondered if all those people who were spared from the horsepower of his front bumper were even really _saved. _If they failed tonight, all those people he was trying to protect on the road would end up burnt to a crisp anyway.

Peter and Claire shared the backseat, knees turned away from each other. The air was thick between them, and other than their firmly intertwined hands, they gave the entire aura of being in a lover's feud. Sylar glanced back at them in his rear-view mirror and his lips pursed. There were so many things he wanted to say, but English, not even _Chinese, _could truly express those trains of thought.

After he pulled up to the front of the Museum of Natural History, Sylar opened the door and stepped out onto Constitution Avenue. He looked to the right and saw the Capitol building in the distance, all the museums of the Smithsonian lined up like soldiers to direct one's eye to the seat of Congress.

"Where is everyone?" Peter asked aloud, closing the door to the Versa. His question was well merited; the only cars around, other then them, where white vans of Smithsonian Security.

"All of the institutes closed hours ago, usually before sunset," Claire told him.

Peter acknowledged her words with a mumble. Then, he inhaled deeply, expanding his lungs with clear and crisp night air, giving much-needed oxygen to his worn muscles.

"Fine," he said, with a note of doom and finality. "What are we waiting for?

It was a small hike to the museum's actual entrance. Sylar, Peter, and Claire trooped all the way across the long, football field sized lawn, and then pulled themselves up the marble steps. Peter craned his head and looked up as they walked between two huge ivory columns, and a sinking feeling crept into his gut.

He really hoped that wasn't the last time he'd feel fresh air.

That thought distracted him from searching for Sophia, even as the trio strolled through the Hall of Mammals, and up the small staircase with preserved body parts pinned to the wall. They passed the aquarium and the plasticy models of cavemen, and when they reached the prehistoric hall, Sylar stopped walking.

"As if we needed another excuse to save the world," he commented unclearly.

Peter looked over at his brother, who was staring up at a large T-Rex skeleton that hung from the ceiling.

"What do you mean?"

Sylar waved a hand around them, to the dinosaur bones and the Hope Diamond, to the mummies and the moon rocks. "Do you really want all of this history to be obliviated?"

Peter actually took a moment to think about it, before sincerely responding, "No. I don't."

They walked a bit farther, into the next corridor. Claire and Sylar were lightly conversing, but Peter was lost in the fog of Molly's power, searching out Sophia Linderman's location.

"How are we gonna find the machine, anyway?" Claire asked Peter directly. "It's a probably a maze down there."

Peter shook off his third eye. "Sophia will lead us right to it. She's already in the building…I think she went…this way…"

He looked around in concentration. As he paced back and forth on the brown tiled floor, he tried bringing back memories of seeing Sophia enter here, visions he witnessed on the ride to the museums. Sophia had entered a discreet door behind some plants, but he was fuzzy on where exactly it was.

Peter breathed sharply in frustration, and he decided to give up on superpowers. If James Bond could be a great spy with nothing but some gadgets and a hot chick, so could he.

"It's a brown door," he told his brother and Claire. "It blends into one of the walls. That'll take us downstairs, and I can search out the location of Sophia from there."

Sylar blinked, and raised an all-telling index finger to point at the far wall. "You mean that door?"

Peter swiveled around and followed where Sylar was pointing. And indeed, there was a discreet metal door built right next to one of the exhibits.

"That's not the one she entered, but all of em' will take us downstairs anyway," Peter nodded. "C'mon."

Superpowers did help with opening the lock, and soon the trio was making their way down a flight of industrial steps. The whole space appeared exactly as Peter had imagined it would: concrete floors, dirty white walls, wide corridors.

Peter wrapped his arms around Claire and Sylar's shoulders and he swiftly turned them invisible. His friends crept along with him without protest, huddling even closer to the empath to let other random people pass them without alarm.

The corridors were eerily quiet, so quiet that the trio almost expected something to pop out and sink its teeth into them. Peter's insides were doing backflips as his awareness became more and more on edge. He could hear Sophia's black heartbeat from there, a sharp thumping that threatened to shatter his eardrums.

Sylar seemed vaguely uncomfortable too, and Peter felt at least a little reassured that he wasn't the only one hearing it. Claire seemed to be the sole member among them brimming with confidence, a hand held steadily on her jacket where her gun was.

They reached a fork in the maze of the underground, and Peter picked that as an ample chance to pull his friends aside and, for a rare occasion, be totally frank with them.

"We're gonna have to split up pretty soon. You two go to the main control room as soon as I figure out where it is. I'll trap Sophia in the machine's core, and take her on there. Hopefully, I'll be able to destroy the machine too, after you guys shut it off for me."

"I'm staying with you," Claire protested in a stern whisper. "I came here to watch your back."

Peter turned to her in the best way he could, with one arm wrapped around Sylar to keep them invisible. He brought his left hand from her shoulder to her cheek, but Claire swatted it away rebelliously.

"You promised me that you would listen," he reminded her. "You promise that you'd let me go alone."

"You _made _me promise that, just like you made me promise to _shoot you_."

Peter grimaced, not exactly cheerful as he relieved that memory. "Life isn't fair," he told her in a more commanding tone. "You think I don't want you and Sylar with me? Of course I do. But I'm sacrificing that so I can do this _right. _You both will be better assets as hackers."

He moved forward, but Claire stood still, preventing him from pulling her along.

"Claire, we need to get-,"

She stopped him mid-sentence with her bigass pistol, which she pulled from the inside of her jacket. It was one of the guns assigned to her by the FBI.

"At least take this," she ordered, more affectionately, thrusting the revolver out to Peter. "You can shoot Sophia if something happens to your abilities."

Peter brought up a hand, and Claire triumphantly expected Peter to take the gun. On the contrary, he used his palm to push it away, back to her.

"You need it more than me," he said. "You don't have any other weapons. I do."

Claire unwillingly took the revolver back from him, her features marred with distrust. And instead of pocketing her gun, she kept it molded in her hand this time, pointed towards the floor for safety.

They walked a little farther, still wandering aimlessly around in search for the machine's main operating room. Peter wasn't sure how it worked, and he didn't feel like risking a disaster by destroying it when it was on. That's where Sylar and Claire were to come in: they'd pull the plug on the machine, so Peter could safely rip it apart from the inside out.

Peter held his arms out, stopping his comrades in place. His eyes were closed, pressed tightly together as he tapped into Molly's ability.

"I think Sophia's in the control room. It's really close by." He pursed his lips, and looked much like one in the middle of an eye exam, straining to see E M C K or whatever letters were on the very bottom row.

Peter's voice lowered. "She's just now leaving."

Claire prodded him in the side, hard. She then thrusted a finger towards a redhead at the end of the corridor. "Yeah. And she's coming this way."

The echoing clip-clop of Sophia's stilettos was getting closer. Peter speedily pulled his friends round the bend, all three of them still hidden by the essence of Claude Raines.

"After she turns that corner," Peter fired away at them, "run to the control room. I'll follow Sophia, invisible, down to the machine." To Peter's surprise, Claire remained zipper-lipped, choosing not to argue with him this time.

Instead, she did something much worse.

Claire maneuvered her way past Peter, so her lover's hand was the sole thing keeping her invisible. She raised her gun menacingly towards their enemy and closed one eye, focusing only on Sophia's shapely silhouette. She slowly pulled her index finger on the trigger…

"No!" hissed Peter, yanking the pistol out of her grip. But it was too late. Claire had already fired, and it would have been the perfect shot, dead center in Sophia's spine, had Peter not interfered.

Sophia whipped her head around and looked up at the smoking bullethole in the wall, where Claire's shot had ended up. Her shadow went into action immediately, standing ready to fight and defend, while Sophia in human form smacked a red alarm on the wall. A blaring siren erupted through the halls, and the corridor suddenly swarmed with guards, creating a barrier between Sophia and…seemingly nothing.

"Why the _hell_ did you do that!?" Claire yelled, poking an accusing finger in Peter's chest. "I could have ended this whole thing and now we're CAUGHT!"

"We need her to lead us to the machine's core," Peter insisted. "And her back was turned. It wouldn't have been fair."

Claire scoffed. "After what she's done to you, you still have a code of _conduct _with this woman?!"

"Well I have _you _to thank for that, Miss Morals," Peter cocked his head, giving her a mischievous look. "It's not _my _fault you've been too much of a good influence on me."

"Er…Peter? Claire?" Sylar asked, directing their faces to the tsunami of henchman coming their way. "Now isn't exactly the best time."

Right as he gave them his warning, the firing began, a hurricane of pellets in all directions. Peter roughly grabbed Claire and Sylar by their shirts and pulled them to the ground, trying to shield them as best as he could with his body.

"I'm gonna turn us visible!" Peter screamed, feeling hot shards of metal fall from the sky and onto his skin. "One…two…"

On "Three!" the gunplay abruptly ceased. The dozen or so guards that were standing before the hunched trio looked curiously at one another before all pointing their guns towards Peter and his friends.

"Help me!" Peter shouted to Sylar, ungracefully pulling himself off the ground. The guards immediately resumed their firing, yet Peter blocked off the slugs with his forearm, a shield of telekinesis causing the bullets to bounce away. Sylar stood up too, adding his own mind powers to the mix, and soon, the bullets were heading back _towards _Sophia's men.

As the guards ducked over one another, yelping, Peter gestured towards the black door that Sophia had exited from. There was no more firing, so Peter lowered his telekinetic barrier and helped Claire off the ground.

"Go ahead!" he wheezed to his friends. "Switch off the-,"

A ear-shattering round exploded in the air, clipping all three of them a couple times each. Sylar winced and looked down at his arm, which had been sliced open on the side with a stray bullet. A crimson flower was already starting to bloom on his sleeve.

By some inhuman reflex, he still managed to pull Peter aside, saving his brother from what would have been a nasty shot to the head. "No!" Sylar breathed back. "We're not leaving you yet!"

Claire was smashed between them, protected by their joint TK powers. But, never the one to be the damsel in distress for long, Claire ducked out from Sylar and Peter's human box, her gun raised.

With expert precision, she shot out the kneecaps of three of the guards before ducking into a cutout in the wall. She tried not to think about the pain she was inflicting on them…a wound like that hurt like _hell. _But they were still henchmen, money hungry and dumb, and Claire didn't think they deserved to necessarily die today. She would incapacitate only, never kill.

Except, that is, for Sophia Linderman herself. Claire made sure that she had at least a couple bullets saved for that bitch.

"Claire! Get down!" screeched a male voice behind her, but she couldn't recognize it as Peter or Sylar's. Or, it could have been both of them actually. For when she looked over her shoulder at them, each brother had a hand raised in preparation to strike.

Claire choked on a gasp that bubbled in her throat, and she threw herself to the floor, crouched against the wall. Peter and Sylar advanced past her, side by side, throwing chunks of ice in all directions. The sentries screamed in pain as the frozen weapons smashed into skulls with bone-racking force.

The brothers sent flock after flock of guards slamming into the sheetrock, until there was plaster mixing in with the hail of projectiles. Both fought their way through the army of mortals like a pair of Spartans, using telekinesis and ice as sword and shield. Those were the 'safe' powers, admittedly. These men and women they faced were wives, mothers, brothers, sons. They were merely doing their jobs, even if they were on the wrong side.

Sylar tried not the think about it in neutral terms, lest the remorse would come. _This is natural selection. _He repeated the mantra over and over as he walked over all the fallen bodies, hopefully none of them dead. _Survival of the fittest._

In that very brief moment of reprieve, Sylar had the chance to catch his breath and rapidly come up with another plan. He glanced in the direction of the control room, where a whole new set of watchguards were coming round the bend.

"Push me across the floor, that way," Sylar quickly demanded of Peter, clutching his sibling's arm. He pointed towards the control room with his other hand.

Peter nodded and stood back a bit as his brother got down on his stomach, hands pressed firmly onto the dusty grey concrete. The mimic raised a steady palm, studying the advance of the soldiers and waiting, just waiting, for the opportune second.

Sylar's feet were facing the guards and the end of the hallway. He looked behind him and saw Linderman's lackeys approaching faster and faster, just with smaller guns than the others. Sylar's eyes found Peter's again and his confident expression told his brother everything essential.

Peter pulled his hand back and threw it forward again, sending Sylar sliding backwards on his stomach. The amnesiac's lanky body tripped up some of the guards like a bowling ball through pins, but that wasn't nearly the grand finale. His true weapon was in his fingertips which, as they ran across the rough floor, left a trail of thick ice over the concrete.

The guards that didn't slip and end up winding themselves found the soles of their boots caught in the frost. It wasn't a maneuver that would save the world, but Sylar couldn't help but grin in triumph as he picked himself off the ground and brushed off his clothes.

On the other side of the pond, Peter head Claire yell "Where's Sophia!" from somewhere, and everywhere, and _nowhere._ He regretted not paying attention to where her voice came from, but he meant to reply anyway. At least there would be a _chance_ she'd get the message.

Peter frantically looked around, before spotting the Sophia's haughty form rounding a corner at the end of their very long hall. The triad of do-gooders were at an intersection now, guards blocking them in Sophia's direction. But, Peter recognized that there wasn't much to be said about the protection for the control room…

"GO NOW!" Peter suddenly yelled, waving a hand at his brother to go towards the opposite passageway.

Sylar looked at him unwillingly. "Are you su-?"

"NOW!"

The taller brother, the one with all the brains and common sense, the one who believed in science and wisdom and paying it forward…he gave Peter a final firm stare before following the instructions.

Peter observed Sylar until his brother was totally out of sight. And though he wasn't particularly a religious man, even with his experience in the afterlife, Peter could help but silently pray, _God help him. _

But what about Claire? From Peter's vantage point, she was still MIA, when she should have been going with Sylar.

As his eyes scanned the hallway for his small-framed love, one of the last few guards who simply _refused _to be knocked out like the others, raised a machine gun towards Peter's torso. Peter's frenzied gaze finally caught the barrel of the gun, and the guard's finger already in mid-pull of the trigger.

_Son of a bitch, _Peter internally groaned. This was going to _hurt_.

But instead of feeling the force of two dozen bullets ripping through his chest, Peter felt a body, a small and feminine body that he knew all too well, go careening into him.

Claire had come out of nowhere, standing before him like a brick wall, absorbing every shot for his sake. After she'd clearly had all she could handle, her temporarily dead body collapsed into Peter's arms. And then, most surprisingly, the guard with the automatic paused for a second.

Peter's sight lifted up, from Claire's battered body, to the undecided gunman. He wasn't sure what had caused such a pause in the henchman's attack. _Perhaps, _Peter coldly considered, _they actually have some empathy._

However, with the heaviness of this warm body in his arms, the body of the woman he loved…Peter could hardly spare the same mercy.

He summoned abilities from the very base of his skull, letting all the energy flow to his hand. Peter clenched his fist, reared back his arm, and threw his body forward with a yell, shattering everything in his path with the force of the telekinetic blast. Including, of course, Sophia's little gunman.

Peter scooped up Claire in a tender cradle while going invisible. He set his focus on a spot at the end of the hall, and with a blink of his eye, they were gone.

xxx

Getting into the control room was easy work for a man like Sylar. He'd been afraid earlier that his conscience would have it's way with him tonight, and that for all his power, he wouldn't have been able to barefacedly harm anyone.

However, when his enemies had shotguns pointed in his direction and it was literally raining bullets, Sylar found it a _little _easier to use these dudes as his telekinetic punching bags.

Even with such obstacles, Sylar successfully broke into the control room and found the breaker box. He opened it and smiled. "Hello there, lovely."

Apparently, Sophia hadn't exactly gotten the smartest IT guys in the world to help her with the basics. Instead of a panel with complicated buttons and scribbled markings that only people in "the know" understood, there was a single column of blue switches, with masking taped labels next to them. Sylar peered closer and saw switches for the elevators, lights on every level, power outlets, electronic locks...

Yet there was no big button that said "evil death machine power generator."

Sylar frowned and ran a hand over his mouth in meditation, a mannerism he hadn't even realized he picked up from his brother. He found it hard to think in this environment: in a tiny operations booth, surrounded by bodies, with the only sound being a few bleeps from the computers around him.

Still, his quick-thinking brain came to a conclusion, even in the grim conditions_. If there isn't a specific switch for the machine…_

"Where's the main power?" he muttered, leaning in and running a slender finger up the control tower, from the bottom to the top. His eyes scanned the Sharpie labels, searching out any words that could represent a magic "power all" switch. When he reached the very top button, Sylar's racing heartbeat was allowed a minute of rest.

Sylar double checked the label and it was indeed the "Main Power Grid." If he wasn't in a rush of life and death proportions, he would have considered his next decision a little more deeply. What if the wiring was shoddy and the breaker box blew up? What if he made the reactor that ran the machine go into some sort of meltdown? So far, he'd hardly faced the wrath of karma for his previous sins, but what if NOW was the time that he was supposed to pay his penance? What if NOW was the time that everything decided to go wrong, even when the misfortune occurred outside the realm of possibility?

But there was no such time to waste. For once in his life, Sylar had to be spontaneous. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, pinched his fingers around the small switch, and tugged downward.

Everything in the room that associated with electricity was immediately shut down. Computers, telephones, and of course, the lights. But there was no explosion. The ceiling didn't cave in. The world didn't stop turning. Shutting off the main power grid did exactly what it was expected to do: everything went black.

A good chunk of Sylar's stress was released through a heavy sigh, and he slumped against the wall in relief.

Sylar:1. Karma:0.

xxx

Claire's body was feather-light in Peter's arms as he ran, invisible, in the direction that Sophia went. His girl wasn't quite dead anymore- she was now breathing and making small, mousey noises- but 'injured' would be an understatement. Any normal person would have flatlined about minute and a half ago.

Peter followed in Linderman's footsteps, leaving a trail of metal breadcrumbs as Claire's body continued to spasm and spit out the slugs from her torso.

"Where's Sylar?" she mumbled when she could finally talk, though her voice was frail.

"I told him to go ahead to the control room before he got hurt," Peter hurriedly replied, distracted by trying to find Sophia.

"Oh," Claire answered, embarrassed. "You said I was supposed to go with him."

Peter slowed his pace a little and glanced down at her. There was almost a smile on his lips. "It's okay. You just took two dozen hits for me. It's pretty much impossible for me to be mad at you right now."

Claire beamed.

"Do you think you can walk?" he asked, looking back at the spattered trace of Claire's blood that stalked them on the floor. Peter felt her nod against his jacket, and he carefully set her on her feet, a supportive arm around her shoulders.

"Thanks."

Peter barely managed to press a kiss to her temple before Claire's mind was back in the game. "Where do you think she went?"

He pointed to the intersection up ahead, and then jerked his finger towards the left. "I think I remember seeing her up here, about ten seconds ago."

Claire nodded again and stood a bit straighter, to not weigh him down. The awkward pair headed past the curve to see an elevator at the end of the hall. The doors were inching towards each other, and as the couple hobbled closer to the other side of the corridor, breaths and heartbeats increasing in anxiety, they finally saw who the metal gates were closing around.

Sophia.

Peter yelled something nonsensical, pulling Claire along more roughly. Yet, it was too late. Sophia, her shadow, _and _her smirk were already on their way down to the lowest depths of the Smithsonian.

Peter immediately pressed the button to bring the elevator back, hoping half-heartedly that Sylar would shut off all the power when Sophia was in the shaft. But no such luck. When the elevator came back up for Peter and Claire, empty, all the lights were still on.

"Can't we just teleport down there?" Claire frowned. "We could get there before she does."

"I can't teleport to places when I don't really know where I'm going," Peter explained as he led her into the lift and pressed one of the buttons on the wall. "I know she's going downstairs, but I don't know what level or what it looks like. If I tried to teleport, we could get stuck in a wall or something."

Claire flinched. "Okay. Elevator, please."

The doors closed and Peter watched the illuminated yellow button he'd just pushed. Out of the three available buttons, he had no idea which one Sophia went to. So he chose the safe route and picked the middle one, level two. If Sophia was there, then the fight was on. If they ended up on a dummy level, then he'd have a safe spot to drop Claire off.

However, as all the lights suddenly went out, and the hum of the elevator waned to a stop, Peter realized with a shiver that they probably wouldn't be going anywhere soon.

He resisted the urge to smack the wall. "Great timing, Sylar!" he yelled to the sky. With his brother's super-hearing, Peter wouldn't have been surprised if Sylar actually heard him.

Claire bit her lip. "Should we risk teleporting?"

Peter shook his head, overwhelmed. "No. Hopefully, Sophia's no closer to it then we are. It looks like Sylar shut off everything, including the machine."

"So now we wait."

Peter slid down the wall, into the corner of the darkened lift. He beckoned her to sit by him, and confirmed, "So now we wait."

xxx

Sophia noticed the power outage almost immediately, and it stopped her in her tracks.

"Clever little scoundrels," she smirked in slight admiration, staring up into the dome of her magnificent machine. She could still see every intricate little detail and wiring, for of course, the lights were still on in there. If Peter wanted to outdo her, he was going to have to try a bit harder.

The woman crossed the glass tiled floor, headed towards the main control podium of her handiwork. A large and shining metal globe was in the center of it all, just waiting for Sophia to sink her hands into it, to let her soul explode out into Washington D.C. and incinerate everything.

It would take a lot of energy. Not just from the machine, and the emergency generator running beneath her feet, but _herself. _It had been deduced, when the machine was first outlined, that the chance of survival for anyone willing to put themselves in the center of this doomsday device was slim to none. For an operation such as Sophia's, aiming for a thirty mile radius of destruction…

…death by exhaustion was a certainty.

Yet Sophia, with her husband's dreams and her daughter's commitment,lifted her chin and stepped up onto the podium with what almost could be mistaken for valor. She no longer feared death. After all, where was the joy in living for her anymore? Everyone she'd ever cared about was dead now, one of them by her own hand. And both of them, both Daniel and Elisa, had died for this to come true. It was Sophia's responsibility, nearly her birthright, to not let her family die in vain. Sophia Linderman had the full intention of giving her last dying breath for this cause, for _their _cause, even if meant martyrdom.

And heaven knows, she said serenely to herself. It's always the martyrs that make the history books.

xxx

The elevator was cold and dark and unmoving, a lot like how Peter and Claire were at the moment. They sat huddled together for warmth in the corner, surrounded by a field of bullets that Claire's body had continued to eject over the past few minutes.

"Isn't there a generator for the elevator?" Claire interrupted the stillness. She sat up, wincing, and her flesh spat out one last bullet. The wound healed, and Claire was back to equilibrium again, not a scratch on her.

Peter shrugged. "Probably not. I think this is a service elevator, built solely for the machine. I doubt they took safety in mind."

Claire's chin bobbed in concurrence and she sat back on her knees, smoothing out her torn and bloodied shirt. She sighed, staring at the torso that had just been blown apart a few minutes ago.

"Are you okay?" Peter softly asked, touching her arm with his usual dose of concern.

Claire looked up at him and took him by surprise with a smile. "Yeah. I feel great, actually." She blushed, and Peter could feel the warmth of her cheeks radiating towards him. "I think I know now why you like saving me so much. It's a nice feeling, being a heroine."

Peter smiled back with a tight-lipped chuckle. He drew her back down to his chest and they sat in comfortable silence for a few more seconds. Peter could feel her warm, gentle breath caressing the side of his neck, and thought, _I am _really _going to miss this. _

He inhaled deeply, tightening his hold on her as if she would effortlessly float away. "Claire?"

"Yeah?" she said back in a barely audible murmur. Almost like a whimper.

Peter buried his face in her hair. "I want to tell you the last thing on my list."

Claire's eyes widened and she straightened up, looking at him with intensity. She tried to let her schoolgirl curiosity for what he had to say drown out the dread of losing him. However, as both of them had a habit of saying, it didn't take.

She knew, in her right mind, that Peter probably wouldn't make it out of Sophia's battle in one piece. But before now, Claire was in denial, thinking almost like they were in a movie. A movie with a _happy _ending and a _happy _couple. A couple that could actually go on dates, and get married, and have a family. It all hit her like a train wreck in that moment, that _this is it. _She would probably never go on a date with Peter. She'd never make love to him again. When she walked up the aisle on Nathan Petrelli's arm, a stranger would be waiting at the alter, not her Peter.

She'd waited for four years for him to return to her, and he was about to be taken away again. Forever.

"Claire?"

She swallowed, trying to remember what he had been talking about before. "Oh…what? What is it?"

Peter hesitated, before beginning his story, choked up. "Four years ago, I ran away, and I never told you why. I never really gave you much of anything and God, Claire, I am so _goddamn _sorry." He held her face warmly, and Claire could swear he was starting to tear up. "I didn't want to leave you, or Nathan, _anyone._ But back then, this…," He moistened his lips. "_Us…_it wouldn't have been right."

Claire touched his lips, realization dawning on her. "You were afraid something would happen between us? You went missing for four years to avoid something that you've all of a sudden decided to _embrace?_"

"Understand my reasons," he begged. "We thought we were related! Forgive me if thought I was a bit sick for being completely in love with you!"

Claire couldn't handle this right now. Not when he was so close to being ripped away from her. She shot back in defiance, in tearful disbelief, "In love with me? _All that time?_ All that time and you never said a word? I didn't care that it was wrong, Peter. I just wanted _you_. Four years of you lying to me about this is still better than four years without you at all."

"I wasn't afraid of hiding it," Peter confessed. "I was afraid that I_ couldn't _fake it anymore. You kept getting closer to me, and every time you even _touched _me, I'd…" He was conflicted and fighting back the past, but his voice was still heartfelt. "I didn't want to lose myself and end up hurting you."

Claire had no honest idea what to say to that. She understood what he said, but that didn't mean she supported it. Peter had apologized for running away, several times now, but for a reason like this? They could have had years together, yet he chose to fight. He chose to fight the laws, to fight bad guys, and to fight his feelings for her.

And this is where they had ended up.

"I know it doesn't make what I did right," Peter said, and Claire wondered if he could read minds. "But for the record, I thought it was one-sided. If I had known you felt the same way, things could have been different."

"Guess it doesn't matter now. We're together anyway."

"Yeah," Peter beamed through the thick shade. "That's all that matters, in the end. I still have you."

Claire leaned into him, snuggling into the lapel of his coat. But just as she was getting comfortable again, the lights shut back on and they felt the elevator jerk.

"C'mon," Peter suggested, cradling her body. "Let's get ready."

He helped her up as the elevator continued to drop, moving until it hit the original level Peter pressed. He had an inkling of what they'd see when the doors slid back, but Peter decided to leave Claire in blissful ignorance.

What was beyond the curtain, so to speak, was a little bit less horrific then Peter had primarily presumed. It was a long corridor, much fancier then the other tunnels beneath the Smithsonian. The lights were all out, for Sylar had apparently only reactivated the power in the elevators, phones, and other necessities. Yet, the corridor still had an eerie glow to it, coming from a large pane of glass at the end of the hall.

Peter and Claire glanced at each other, and Claire took the first step, carefully padding across the green tile. What she saw when she reached the large window was another room, much like an arena. There was a circular podium in the middle of that room, with a gleaming metal ball that looked a lot like one of those static electricity makers.

And standing by that metal ball, pulling levers and pressing a multitude of buttons on the control panels, was Sophia Linderman.

"This is the machine," Claire gasped.

The level they were on now was much designed like an operating hall. Claire looked through the glass, directly across to the other side of the machine's core, and saw more windows looking down upon the spectacle. To her left and right, the floor continued on in a curve, so one could have a 360 view of the entire apparatus.

"Blast shields," Peter pointed out.

Claire looked up and saw the very bottom of a metal sheet covering the top couple inches of the glass pane. It was the same with every other window too: a strip of lead that probably had another six feet attached to the back end of it, going up into the ceiling. There wasn't much else the metal strips could be, and Peter was slightly awed at the ingenuity. He didn't expect for the builders of this contraption to be so secure.

As Claire was distracted by his discovery, Peter began taking slow, very quiet steps backwards. He held his breath, willing his body not to make a sound. If he did this right, then Claire could be spared at least some pain.

"We've got to get down there," Claire said breathlessly.

_We. _Peter cringed. He'd been expecting her to want to tag along, but it didn't make this any easier.

"Claire-," Peter's voice stopped her as she was in mid-turnaround. She looked at him in question, noticing that he was a good five feet farther away then he was a few seconds ago.

"Peter…?" She said suspiciously, starting to walk towards him.

"Forgive me," he softly implored. Without warning, he turned on his boots and ran full speed to the open elevator. Claire screamed something he didn't have enough focus to hear, but he could still sense her running after him, catching up, desperate to tackle him and never let go.

But Peter made it into the elevator before her, pressing the 'door close' button as he stumbled inside. There was a series of clunky noises as the entrance began to zip up, and Peter's heart raced as he saw Claire coming closer and closer. Before he could stop her, Claire stuck her arm in, alerting the sensors and making the doors draw back into their resting places.

Peter immediately activated his telekinesis, creating a mental blockade in the threshold of the lift and the tiled floor. Claire gaped at him and slammed a hand against his invisible defense mechanism.

"Peter, don't do this!" she shrieked, fighting against his telekinesis. The young man looked upon her with glistening eyes full of pity and fault as he watched his girlfriend. Claire helplessly punched and kicked at the unseen barrier between them, still to no avail.

And then the final heartbreaker tumbled out of her mouth. "No! There's gotta be another way!_"_

Peter was transported back to the night at Kirby Plaza, where Claire stood before his glowing body, a gun held unsteadily in her hand. He had made her vow something that was unfair, uncalled for, something no innocent teenage girl should have to do, all just to save the world. He had demanded for her to make such a promise then, and he was doing the same thing now. In fact, as Claire had brought up earlier, he was making her promise _several _things she didn't want or deserve to.

He thought this would have been the _easy _way to part from her, quick and sharp, like ripping off a Band-aid. But now that she was four feet in front of him, her cheeks tearstained and her voice filled with loathing at his betrayal…this definitely was the worst way to go.

The empath gritted his teeth, unable to take it anymore. He took a couple steps forward, out of the shaft and almost violently threw himself around her. Claire moaned into his collar in relief, igniting even more shame in Peter's chest.

"Sneaky bastard," she sniffed. "Protect me all you want from the bad guys, but don't even think about 'protecting' me from the _truth_."

"I'm sorry," Peter sincerely stated. "But I have to go down there, and I'm not gonna let you get hurt." He pulled back and looked into the portals to her soul as Claire's face suddenly started to fall. Piercing brown traveled through alarmed sea green until he finally was staring directly into the ocean of her sprit. "I love you. Never forget it."

He brought her face roughly to his, giving her one last, desperate kiss. Their mouths danced in a parting tango as Claire grasped him back, so hard that Peter wondered if she'd ever let go. For a few final seconds, all was still; they were allowed to lose themselves in utter surrender, to drown in each other's infinite passion. It made the parting of the ways even more harsh.

A low humming began beneath their feet and Claire let out a barely audible "no", understanding that their time was up. Peter rapidly released her and swooped back into the elevator, all in one move.

"Wait for Sylar. When he gets here, I want you both to run. Run as far away as you can and don't look back."

Claire's face was wrought with distress. "Peter…"

"Don't worry about me," he told her tenderly, before he could change his mind again. He pressed the button for the elevator to take off. "I'll be okay."

As Claire watched his defeated frame start to disappear behind the metal doors, Peter's stare was downcast in misery. The world would be surely damned if he looked back up at her, into her lovely heartbreaking gaze. There was no way his self-control could let him walk away from that again. He'd be out there in a flash just like before, kissing her even harder, and for what? Within a few more seconds, they'd _all _be dead, reduced to ashes by Sophia's shadow of wrath.

Peter allowed himself one last gossamer view when he reached the point of no return. Just before the doors sealed together with a pneumatic hiss, the last thing he saw was Claire fall to her knees in despair.

He winced and leaned back against the wall, feeling the lift slowly lower him into the depths of Sophia's machine. Peter took a deep breath and leveled his shoulders, abandoning thoughts of Claire to prepare for what rested beneath his feet.

DL's murderer would be waiting him. A woman who had killed her own daughter, who had persecuted millions…a woman who was indirectly responsible for the barcode on Peter's wrist, and every other mutant's, and the same woman who had Claire forced into a life she wholly detested.

It didn't take long to summon a primal hate for Sophia Linderman. It was certainly strong enough to kill her without guilt, without mercy. She would do the same to him.

When the doors uncurled at last, the first thing Peter spotted in the middle of the room was the older woman's shapely figure, and he _smirked_ at it. She caught his eye and sneered as a silent reply, an acknowledgement of equals.

From then on, there truly was no going back.

_xxx_

_Chapter Twenty-Two_

"_Crown of Thorns"_

_Coming Soon_

_xxx_


	23. Crown of Thorns

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"**Crown of Thorns" **

The hum of Sophia's magnificent machine was like music to her ears. The contraption sounded like a growling animal, purring and crackling with life, longing to pounce on its prey. Only Sophia's gentle petting and murmurs soothed it, holding it off for a few more minutes until she would eventually tell it to attack.

A clunky _whoosh _arrived behind her as the elevator door opened. Sophia could sense Peter Petrelli held in the lift's four walls without even having to look. He was one person that would have enough nerve to duel her.

Sophia turned from the control panel and faced her equal. She took in his bullethole covered jacket, messy crew cut, cheeks sprinkled with blood. Peter appeared to have already _been _in a few battles today, delighting Sophia even more. She could wipe the glass floor with him in under a minute.

"Peter," the redhead recognized pleasantly. "How lovely of you to crawl out the casket and come see me."

"It was a shallow grave," Peter growled back. He reached a hand behind him and clenched his fist, resulting in a mechanical whine from the elevator. The ceiling caved in, the level buttons sparked, and the cheap metal walls bent at impossible angles. Within a few seconds of Peter's telekinetic handiwork, the elevator resembled an accordion.

Sophia crossed her arms as Peter began striding towards her. "No going back? Well isn't that arrogant of you. Hoping to still be 'indestructible?'"

"No, I'm perfectly mortal," Peter replied candidly, with a carefree shrug. "Just like _you_."

For the first time, Sophia's rage began to boil. "I am a god, boy," she spat, throwing an elegant hand viciously in his direction. Her shadow leapt out from behind her, swooping down to donate another burn to Peter's collection.

Yet, Peter calmly held up a palm, stopping her fiery soul with a small dose of telekinesis. He lowered his arm once her shadow backed off, and then challengingly arched an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that? You have one ability. I have more than I can count, and unlike last time, they're all intact."

Sophia stepped off of the podium so she met him eye to eye

"Every power except one," she corrected him without explanation. She brought a smooth finger up and pointed it over his shoulder, upwards. Peter cautiously followed her eyes, rotating around slowly on his heel and bracing himself for a backstabbing assault.

However, when he saw what Sophia was directing at, the fight was forgotten.

"Claire," he murmured. The love of his life had her knuckles against one of the glass windows, her features wrought with terror and dread. She slapped the window and screamed something that was muffled by the transparent wall between them, and Peter felt his chest tighten.

He also felt his ankle twist as Sophia rammed her leg onto the back of his shins, tripping him up from behind. Peter landed roughly on his vertebrae, hearing a sickening crunch to accompany the pain in his legs. He arched his back, yelping, and willed for his healing powers to come to the rescue.

Even through his bleary vision, he could see Sophia leaning over him with a sneer. "Your focus," she concluded maliciously.

Peter turned his head and blinked a few times to clear the fog off his eyes. Claire was sideways from his perspective, clawing at the glass with tears streaming down her face. He groaned internally _Get out of here Claire…run away, go…_

And then he remembered the blast doors, the sheets of metal coming out of the wall that were designed to protect the museum in case of a meltdown. In this case, they could be used to protect his Claire.

Peter reached a hand towards her, squinting in concentration. Claire, who could only see his actions and not his thoughts, bowed her head in sorrow. She had tried to get on the elevator to go down there and help him, but he trashed it. There was no way to get down there except for the-

And just as realization dawned on Claire, the blast doors for every window came down, sucking all the light out of the room. She ripped her hands away right before the metal almost severed them from her wrists. It took a heavy three seconds before Claire's actual reaction kicked in, a loud and terrible wail as she slammed her body onto the lead and slowly slid to the ground.

Down in the arena, Peter let out a breezy sigh as that fret was finally plucked from his mind. Sylar would come soon, and Sylar would see reason, as always. Peter's friends would be far away and safe in just a short while. He hoped.

Yet Peter himself still had a job to do.

Sophia's gaze was locked on the blockaded window, her mouth slightly agape with surprise. Peter stared up at her and grinned bittersweetly.

"I don't think _focus_ is going to be a problem anymore" he stated matter-of-factly, before shoving a kick to her abdomen.

xxx

Claire banged on the metal barricaded window even harder than before, Peter's name spilling out of her mouth like a mantra. She punched and punched until her knuckles began to break and then re-heal, but after working herself to collapsing, the blast shields showed no sign of budging.

Not being able to see Peter was even worse than knowing what he was going through. When that window was blocked off, she was like an army wife left on the home front, with nothing but her imagination to supply her images. And Claire's imagination, after all the blood she'd seen splattered in her lifetime, was rather unhealthy.

She could view him in her head, being ripped and torn apart most heinously, then thrown across the glass like a limp doll. Claire let out a moan and clutched her head in her bloody hands, willing the nightmare to leave her mind. She trembled with fear and felt sick to her stomach, but she fought with every bone not to cry. The young woman and former FBI agent had shed enough tears today. And heaven knew, after three years of living a lie as she had, she sure as hell knew how to keep her sobs in check.

Letting out a final snivel, she stumbled to her feet yet again, straightening her sore shoulders. Claire reached into her breast holster and removed her gun, with five bullets left, then she raised the pistol to the blast shield.

A door opened behind her and an out-of-breath voice wheezed, "Claire? What are you doing?"

Claire let out a gasp as she whipped around, but her face fell when she saw it was Sylar, not Peter. Even still, she dropped her gun and ran into his open arms, holding onto him like a lifeline. He felt weak and tired under her clutch, but he was warm and real, and that was as good of a comfort as Claire was going to get at the moment.

"Where's Peter?" Sylar shot out, holding her at arms length.

"He's fighting Sophia downstairs," Claire fearfully responded. She pointed to where the glass window would normally provide a broad view of the arena. "He destroyed the elevator and he brought down the blast shields so I can't go down there. But you can help me get them up!"

She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him closer to the thick silver blockades. But Sylar's feet were planted into the ground, his eyes glazed and distant. Claire turned back to him, hysterical.

"Help me!" she cried, tugging his arm more. "Please, we have to hurry!"

"Claire…" Sylar spoke warily. He kindly cupped her frantic face and looked her in directly in the eye. Then, trying to muster up as much conviction possible, he told her, "We need to get out of here. Peter doesn't want to keep you in danger."

The young woman's jaw went slack with outrage and incredulity. She took a step back and slipped out of his light hold, shaking her head in shock. When she was actually able to look at him, her expression was distraught.

"You're just going to abandon your _brother?" _she screeched._ "_What are you thinking?!"

Sylar sighed dejectedly, clearly having a hard time in saying, "This…is what he…wants…Claire."

Claire grabbed the front of his shirt ferociously, catching him off guard. "And do you _always _do what he tells you to do? Sophia's going to _kill him_!" Claire glanced away, broken, hardly able to process the words she'd just screamed. When she collected herself and spoke to Sylar again, her voice was full of newfound malice. "But I guess I now know why you never went on a mission. You're a coward. You won't even go back for your own brother!"

For a second, Claire thought he would smack her, or perhaps throw her across the room with his mind. But Sylar, tranquil as he always was, didn't so much as twitch. He swallowed hard and grabbed her arm, starting to roughly pull her towards the staircase. "I've seen Peter in worse situations," Sylar said with false, rehearsed confidence. "He can take care of himself, trust me."

Claire swung herself into his path and smacked him across the cheek, hard, with her sweat covered palm. Sylar was frozen for a second before he brought a gentle hand to his bleeding mouth. He looked upon her, astonished and dumb.

The young woman's eyes glistened with loathing. She gritted out, "Listen to yourself! I _know _you love Peter, maybe even more than I do. So screw what he told us to do, and let's get down there before it's too late."

Sylar didn't reply; his hand was still pressed against his broken lip, which leaked drops of crimson onto his fingers. The inquisitive chocolate pools beneath his brow stared upon Claire in conflict as an internal battle raged beneath the surface.

He finally wiped the blood off his mouth, and let his hand fall. He still said nothing, but walked towards the blast shield, brushing past Claire. The woman watched him in intensity, every thread of hope she had left calling out for his aid. Her breathing stopped seconds ago, and now she was tensed up, merely blinking and nothing else.

Then Sylar reached out a hand towards the metal and all of Claire's doubt escaped with a grateful sigh.

xxx

Peter fought like a madman, throwing attack after attack at Sophia Linderman. But so far, it was all in vain. Her shadow- which Peter heard her refer to as 'Alice'a couple times now- circled him like a death ring, absorbing every shot he took at the redhead. His energy was beginning to wane, and so far, there were two fresh burns on his leg and arm that had started to anchor him down with soreness. Yet even with his injuries and dizzy mind, his biggest problem was Sophia's defense mechanism. Peter couldn't hold onto a steady target long enough to make a good shot at her.

Petey was lurking around the rink, though Peter himself wasn't sure where. He was a little distracted by Alice, who continued to jab and wisp in his general direction. Peter scolded himself. He'd been in worse situations than this and had gotten out unscratched. Why wasn't his head in the game today?

_Claire and Sylar, _he softly came clean to himself as Alice clipped him on the thigh. Peter barked out and grabbed his leg, using some type of telekinesis to block Alice from kicking him while he was down. As he bit his lip and tried to catch his breath, thoughts of his friends came back again. As much as he wanted Claire and Sylar to be safe…he kind of wanted them here too, helping him, fighting against his back. And even more, he admitted with a lurch of his stomach, it'd be a lot better to die in their arms than to be slaughtered alone.

Sophia was back at the podium, revving up her machine for a second time as Peter mercilessly fought from the other side of the ring. Alice danced around him, blocking him off, until Peter eventually became restless. He gritted his teeth and teleported towards the other side of the room, invisible, disappearing to both Sophia and her shadow.

This time, Linderman looked up from her work, a bothered frown on her poised features. "Going to hide from me then?" she asked, her voice a pitch or two higher than normal. "What a shame. I really would have liked to kill you with my bare hands."

Just as the last syllable reverberated off the steel walls, a pair of cold, unforgiving hands clenched around her own neck. Peter had levitated towards her in a flash, from behind, and now he was breathing harshly into her ear.

"Ditto," he grunted, tightening his grip on her neck. Sophia's irate green eyes traveled towards Alice, mentally begging her shadow for assistance. But Peter's own shadow, Petey, was holding off the raven minx with surprising strength.

"You killed me slowly the first time," Peter murmured. "And now I'm gonna do the same for you."

"Poetic, are you?" Sophia smirked. "I admire that. There are…many things I admire about you, actually. You might have even been a good lover under different circumstances."

Beads of her blood formed under Peter's fingernails as he hardened his clutch even more, disgusted. _"_Sorry," Peter sardonically snapped back. "I don't find snakes attractive."

Sophia let out a jolly chuckle. "Never mind, then. It would have been unc-,"

She was interrupted by a great shatter from the viewing balcony. The blast shield on one of the windows had been somehow raised, leaving the window unbolted. And now, crashing through the glass and falling fifty feet to the floor was Claire Bennet.

"CLAIRE!!!" Peter screamed. He threw Sophia roughly off the podium and leapt towards the young woman's falling body. With Nathan's flying power, Peter caught her in midair and curved around the arena, keeping both eyes open for Alice. Petey was still fighting Sophia's shadow, but the male-shaped shade seemed to be fading, his blocks merely automatic and desperate. Peter's breath hitched as he set Claire on the ground, still staring at the dueling shadows. They were running out of time.

Sylar lowered himself from the window, to the machine floor, making a cerebral cushion to slow his fall. Peter turned away from everything else and pulled Claire to a dark, saf_er_ corner of the room, his expression conflicted.

"You shouldn't be here," he halfheartedly protested. "I told you to go."

Claire put her hands on the sides of his face. "Did you reallybelieve I'd leave you here?"

"No. I knew you wouldn't," Peter bleakly confessed.

"So what does that teach you about trying to change the future?"

Peter smiled, and opened his mouth to reply, but a small glance upward and he was back in the fight. Alice had gotten past Petey, and was now swooping towards _them, _aiming for the kill.

Peter immediately wrapped his arms around Claire and made them invisible, before teleporting away. Or, in this case, teleporting _up. _He zipped around with her in his arms, still unseen by anyone, feeling very much like Harry Potter dodging a bludger in a Quidditch game (only knowing such a reference by Molly's constant mentioning of the boy wizard, of course). Even still, Alice was a good shot, creating lots of close calls as Peter flew throughout the domed heart of Sophia's doomsday machine.

Sylar, meanwhile, had been creeping along the curved edge of the wall, masked by the darkness, as he tried to make his way to the main podium. While Peter tried to protect Claire and go after Sophia, Sylar recognized _his _job as to fry to machine's insides. The only problem was that Linderman, ever the determined warrior, had managed to get back on her feet after being tossed off the control podium. She was once more at the main panel, pulling a lever that brought the shining metal ball, to life. Sophia beamed upon her creation and let out what seemed like a relieved sigh.

"Hold me still," Claire demanded of Peter from above, pulling out her gun and readying it with a menacing _click-click. _

Peter nodded and lowered them to the ground again, into a crouching position. He shifted so she was almost in his lap while he held her from behind, continuing to pass on his invisibility powers.

"Let go," she quietly ordered. "I can't aim in this position."

Peter was wary. "But-,"

She silenced him with a finger against his protesting mouth. "Just watch my back, okay?"

After a moment of contemplation, he bobbed his head up and down in a barely there agreement. Claire's hand fell away from the lips she'd kissed several times, the lips she wanted to kiss for the rest of her _life._ If she could have had it her way, she would have kissed him again, right there, another _onelasttime_ marqueeing through her head. But at the end of the day, Claire was a professional, and she knew not to get her mind addled with "trivial" things like love.

While Sophia was distracted by lowering the metal ball to where she could reach it, Sylar made his ultimate move, sprinting out of the dark edge. He didn't yell or announce his presence in any way, though his tall and broad frame was pretty much impossible to miss.

Alice was brushed aside with Sylar's mental strong-arm, fluttering through the air like a feather. Sylar's stare was locked on Sophia Linderman now, as he got closer and closer…

Sophia's sharp eyes went into slits when she spotted him. She prepared herself for the predicted attack, gripping the podium for dear life, right as Sylar sent a burst of telekinesis her way. However, Sophia's technique succeeded. Her burgundy hair blew back with a jolt of wind, and Sylar could see the strain in her arms and legs as she held on…but her body didn't budge.

Sylar bounded up onto the podium, meeting her face to face. His stomach churned with nerves, as he absently realized that this was the first time he'd ever come _close _to an enemy. Peter was the fighter; Peter had_ always_ been the fighter and the bad-guy catcher. Sylar was the good cop, the one that ate donuts and hid out in the basement while reciting pre-thought-out sarcasm through Peter's earpiece.

However, Sylar chose to ignore Sophia for the time being, simply letting her cling to the metal ball for safety. The woman was seemingly trapped from his view, afraid of being thrown across the room. But as soon as Sylar turned his back to get to work on the panel of blinking lights and flashing monitors-

A pair of hands grabbed him by the back of his shirt, spun him around, and then threw him against the control panel. Sylar's eyes widened in surprise as he saw Sophia towering over him, hands readied in self-defense. He was spread out over the panel now, vulnerable and down, and she was going to strike.

Before Sylar could even react, Sophia kicked him in the front of his shin, and then slammed the heel of her hand right into his sternum. Sylar groaned and crumpled to the ground, struggling for air at Sophia's stylish feet. Right after Sophia's combat with Sylar was up, Claire unfolded herself from Peter's box of invisibility. Her gun was raised in confidence, her pretty face contorted with rage.

"You _bitch!_" she shouted nastily. Without even giving Sophia a chance to snark back a reply, Claire began firing the last five shots, some bullets making their mark and others pinging off the metal walls of the machine.

From then on, everything happened in slow motion for Peter. All the empath could hear was the harsh thumping of his heart drowning out everything else. He didn't hear the gunshots, or Sophia's shrill screams as Claire sent two bullets into the redhead's shoulder and lower rib He didn't hear Claire's boots across the glass as his love took another step forward with every pull of the trigger. Yet Peter still _saw, _and what he spotted coming towards Claire wiped his mind clean of all thoughts except her.

He yelled Claire's name at the top of his lungs while he ran towards her, kind of hearing himself, way far away. Like another Peter in another dimension was trying to break through to this one. Because this, this _thing _that was about to happen, it couldn't be real. Not in _their _life.

Alice was coming towards Claire head-on, though the young brunette woman was so distracted in her wrath that she didn't notice. Peter saw it coming, though. Peter _saw it_, and he had the chilled blood to prove it.

Said icy blood pumped through his veins as he continued to fling himself in Claire's direction. The whole universe was moving at 1 though, and Peter's brain was working far faster than his muscles. He yelled inside his mind, demanding for those muscles and tendons to just move _faster_, to _save her…_but he continued to be restrained by physics.

Claire heard her name called, and she swiveled around, hair suspended in mid-air as the wind caught it. Peter was running towards her like a marathon racer, gesturing upwards and over her shoulder, his handsome face wrought with terror. Claire frowned and looked back to what he was indicating, and she too went numb.

She gasped and bent towards Peter again, who was four feet in front of her with his arms outstretched. She felt his body crush hers like an airbag, her jaw cracking against his collar as they collided, just like at Homecoming. They plummeted backwards as one, entwined, but would it be quick enough? Would Alice miss them, redirect her course, whip back around?

At any rate, Claire could have sworn, _sworn _that she heard Peter faintly whisper "I love you" before… before…

…before time caught up with itself.

Sophia's shadow swooped up from beneath them, going effortlessly through both of their bodies like a lighter to tissue paper.

Peter and Claire fell to the ground in each other's arms, both wearing faces of pained shock and breathlessness. Alice had evoked the same attack on them as she had on Elisa Thayer, eviscerating both in one move. The entire right side of Claire's torso was gone: appendix, kidney, a couple ribs…all obliviated. And while that was surely fatal to a normal person, Peter's wounds were possibly worse: a gaping hole right in his chest, incinerating his heart. The only thing left in his upper cavity was a lung, which he desperately tried to fill as he headed for impact against the ground.

From the center of the room, Sylar's pained yell of "NO!" echoed off the bowl-shaped ceiling.

When they finally hit rock bottom, Claire's body was soft under Peter's. Though he didn't want to crush her, he was much too alarmed to actually move. The pain made him dizzy and a coppery taste flooded his mouth, painting his lips with ruby warmth. A smell like burning flesh entered his nostrils and that one remaining lung spasmed in struggle as he choked.

Both could feel their bodies achingly try to heal from such injuries, the cells urging to knit back together, organs begging to regrow…but even regeneration couldn't help. Peter knew the sensation from experience: fierce burning, a blockade restraining his healing powers, with the feeling of being so close yet so far…

Sylar was still crouched and recovering from his own comparably milder attack, staring helplessly as his two friends plummeted to the ground. He hardly even noticed Alice, who had looped back around the arena after attacking Peter and Claire. The same Alice who was now hovering over him, preparing to finish off the last of Sophia's rivals.

But a sharp tug on Sylar's arm sent him sliding across the floor, and his head began to reel in confusion. Sylar's body landed in a darker area, a "safe zone" of sorts, as his mysterious rescuer went back to fighting Alice. When he glanced up and saw two shadows dueling, Sylar realized it had been Petey.

On the other side of the room, Peter finally rolled off Claire to give her some breathing room. He somehow managed to pull himself into a sitting position and spit out some of the blood in his mouth, before moving to support Claire in his arms. She was far worse off than he, her sight already becoming unfocused and her bones racking with shudders. Peter bit back a small sob as he held her to his marred chest. Though his wounds were considerably more damaging, he had Sylar's self-necromancy power to keep himself going. Claire had nothing but short-circuited healing powers, and was reacting to the wound nearly as bad as a normal person would. She was going into _shock._

But then Claire's eyes focused on Peter's pallid flesh, and she touched his cheek. Her mouth moved to say something as she began to fade, but Peter shook her, _shook her, _to keep her alert on him.

"No, Claire, don't do this to me," he babbled hoarsely, feeling pain in his chest when he spoke. "You stay with me, okay? Stay with me."

The young woman pressed a light hand over her bloodstained side and she winced. Yet Claire swallowed roughly, pushing the impending clasp of death away for the time being. She looked up at Peter and gave him a barely noticeable nod, and his face broke in relief.

He grabbed her by the back of her neck and kissed her goodbye then, hard and demanding, and altogether anxiously. Claire enjoyed the feel of him around her all the same; she could even taste the metallic red pain on his lips mingling with her own DNA. They'd always been bound by blood in some way; they were covered in each others' at Homecoming; they even thought they _shared _some at one point.

Peter's last caress was gentle before he eventually pulled away from her, turning to Sophia instead. The woman's gunshot wounds were not fatal, but she was just at that moment picking herself off the ground, movements slow and wounded. Claire's slugs had hit her roughly in the spleen area and her shoulder, taking away the mobility of Sophia's left arm. The redhead's gaze burned into Peter even harsher than her shadow did, but Peter's own eyes still glowed more intensely.

The empath let Claire slip out of his arms and settle softly onto the cracked floor. He gave her one last heartfelt look before glancing up and catching his brother's eye. Neither one of the vigilantes could read minds, but their intuition about each other, their familial bond, their twin logic- it all spoke a thousand words without a single sound uttered. Peter's focus shifted to Sophia for a split second, and Sylar nodded to show he understood. He would destroy the machine. Peter would destroy Sophia.

Sylar and Petey were at Peter's sides at an instant, helping him up off the ground. Peter staggered a bit at first, using his brother to support his weight. Yet after a few seconds of bearing the pain, he grinded his teeth and clutched his cremated torso, forcing himself to stand erect and strong.

His shadow's shoulders were broad and intimidating, a rigid scowl on Petey's featureless face. Peter nudged his other half and shook his head, before pointing firmly to Claire

"_You_ stay here and protect her," Peter ordered it.

From the grim stare the shade gave Sophia, who was crawling up the control tower once more, Peter half-expected it to disobey. But Petey shortly nodded at his host and knelt beside Claire, reaching to brush the girl's hair back.

The brothers advanced towards the platform in perfect sync, using combined telekinesis to catch Sophia off guard, throwing her across the room. The red mark of mortality that Claire's gunshots evoked was smeared against the metal as Sophia crumpled against the wall, moaning.

Peter thrusted a finger in the direction of the operations unit. "Take it apart," he yelled gruffly to Sylar. His brother didn't hesitate to step up on the platform and get to work on terminating Sophia's machine. Meanwhile, Peter crossed around the rim of the platform and headed towards Sophia, who was unsteadily standing in her chipped high heels. Her left arm hung down grotesquely, clearly dislocated by the bullet.

Alice was approaching him fast, but Peter shoved the shadow away with a furious show of mental strength and cryokinisis. Sophia's shadow resembled a lump of frosted coal as it went sliding across the glass, writhing in the icy cocoon. Peter knew that Alice's ability to burn would get her out of her frozen prison in a jiffy, but it would hold her off for the time being, at least.

Peter collapsed to his knees, that one act sucking all of his remaining energy away like a vacuum. He was on all fours, panting and ready to hurl on the machine's floor, when he felt a looming presence above him.

"You think you're noble," Sophia snarled from five feet up. "But I don't see anything noble in a cockroach."

She violently slammed the side of her leather heel against his jaw. Peter yelped as he felt it dislocate, blood splattering across the glass floor. Out of the several mishaps and injuries he'd had inflicted on him in his short life, Peter had never had _that _happen to him before. Thankfully, it distracted him from the pain of the gap in his chest for a second. A popped jaw hurt like hell, but it felt like a bubble bath compared to the gaping space in his gut where several organs used to be.

Letting out a primal yell of agony, Peter summoned a burst of energy from the base of his skull, latching his fingers onto Sophia's ankle. While his palm covered the leather straps on her stiletto, he let his power travel from his mind to his hand. Sophia threw her head back and screamed as Peter abruptly squeezed, b turning half the bones to a fine powder with Niki Sanders' super strength. The widow crumbled to the ground in pain and disability, her finely manicured hand immediately grabbing her destroyed ankle.

Peter took her momentary defeat as a good opportunity to shove his jaw back into place with a loud _crack. _He fell from upright on his knees to all fours, _really _desiring to throw one badass punch at Sophia, finish her off right there. She was four feet away from him, making small whimpering noises as she held her swollen leg. It would be _so. freaking. easy. _ But Peter was absolutely exhausted, too weak to even stand up let alone attack her physically anymore.

He crawled to the wall and held himself up against it, the darkness beginning to rim the corners of his vision. _Not now, please don't let me die _now, he begged someone, anyone that was listening. _Claire can't die alone over there…_

Peter looked towards the platform, where Sylar was ripping the machine's guts out, tearing off piece after piece. Shrapnel flew through the air like snowflakes on a cold day, and Peter's entire demeanor started to change. This was it: they were in fact going to _win. _Everything they'd planned out and worked for was becoming a reality, and Peter Petrelli was finally getting to be a hero.

He just had one responsibility left: killing Sophia Linderman and shredding her web of malevolence.

"Feeling the touch of death yet, Peter?" Sophia hissed. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears of anguish and a trickle of fresh blood trailed down her chin.

"We're both dying," Peter corrected her shamelessly. "You're just going first."

Sophia's throat convulsed in a scoff. Even with soon-to-be-terminal wounds, and a ruined ankle, the woman still retained her arrogance. "I'm not missing my entrails, dear. I can almost _feel_ your soul flying away from you, all those vital signs flat-lining…" She closed her eyes almost peacefully, disgusting Peter with her enjoyment.

However, he got over his revulsion pretty fast when he spotted Petey levitating above their heads.

"Actually," Peter coughed out, pointing upwards in hope. "My soul's right there."

Sophia raised her eyes to the shadow that hovered over her, and the white hot flames licking around its dark silhouette. For even though Peter was an inch away from demise in _body, _his soul had never been stronger. Petey was ignited with fires of rage, the same hatred that Sophia had scalded him with.

Right before she was turned to dust, Sophia saw Peter, weakly slumped against the wall with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He brought his hand up to his forehead, to his chest, and then to each shoulder in a sarcastic Roman cross, before kissing his fingers and directing them towards her._ Peace be with you, bitch. _

Petey struck then, blanketing Sophia with black flames and muffling any final shriek she may have let out. And as soon as he saw her fine grey ashes fall to the ground in a wispy dust,Peter's eyes closed in release, all his distress evaporated with Sophia.

Seconds later, he noticed a bright blue glow from behind his closed eyelids, and he opened them.

Sylar was elbow deep in the main operation's panel, a crisp baby blue light hugging his outline. Sylar's teeth were bared in struggle as he fought to control Ted Sprague's power, to not blow them all up in a radioactive blast. An EMP was the only way they could destroy the machine from a position like this, but Sylar had never used this ability before. He knew how to do it in theory, but knowledge and practice are two very different things.

"Burn clean," Peter called out to him with a cough. "Bright, not hot."

Sylar listened to his brother's advice, even though it didn't tell him much he didn't already know. Yet as always, when _Peter _said it, a door of sense was suddenly opened, revealing the answer to Sylar on a silver platter.

So he thought of clean. He thought of happiness, and wonder, and all the joys in his life, even though he knew in the back of his mind that his brother, and the woman who had grown to be his sister, were probably both gonna die in his arms in the next couple minutes.

_Don't let them go in vain, _he muttered to himself, feeling a single tear roll down his cheek. _Don't ruin this. _

Sylar remembered the first times he saw both Peter and Claire. He remembered meeting Molly Walker. He recalled the day he and Peter moved into their Boston bordello and played Go Fish between unpacking boxes. The many hugs and cups of coffee, and even the first kiss he'd received, all from Claire. Him and Peter singing "Another One Bites The Dust" at the top of their lungs on a trip to the Food Lion. Clinking a cup of chai with Mohinder Suresh as the doctor forgave Sylar's mistakes of yesteryear.

Sylar thought of the good and the clean, and all the faces that remolded him into who he was today, not the killer of the past. And with a sorrowful cry, he finally convulsed, body exploding in a burst of cool anti- electric light.

Sylar grasped the panel for support, and he rubbed his forehead to get his sight into focus again. While Sylar had been in the midst of letting out an EMP, Peter made his way to the middle of the room. The injured man was in mid-crawl, leaving a strip of sticky blood behind him like a trail of breadcrumbs.

"Claire!!!" Peter hollered, strangled. He tried to get up and run towards her, but tripped right after standing. Peter fell to his hands and knees again, feeling the glass floor crack underneath his palms and cut into his skin.

"Oh, Peter," Claire faintly mumbled. One of her hands was outstretched towards him, her fingers barely moving.

She felt a smooth, warm, unhumanlike flesh brush against hers. It was Petey, sitting beside her with a halo-like glow around his form. Claire squinted, and could have affirmed, with all that light surrounding him, that she could almost see a pair of kind brown eyes where his normally dark sockets were.

Petey lifted her off the ground and carried her in his wispy arms. Her pained body curled into his warmth and light until he set her down in her actual lover's lap. Peter took her off his shadow's hands as carefully as he possibly could, and then held her in a loose, tender crib.

Sylar joined them with sweat on his brow and bile scorching his esophagus. He was trembling as he stared upon Claire and Peter, who were rapidly deteriorating.

Claire began to cry as she shook in Peter's arms, but her voice didn't show it. "Tell Nathan I love him," she said resolutely.

Peter was quietly weeping with her, and Sylar felt salty tears streaking his own face. Claire shifted so she could see Sylar, and she reached out a frail hand towards him.

Sylar met her halfway and grasped both hands around her thin fingers. Her flesh was ice cold, making Sylar feel even sicker.

"I'm sorry," he barely whispered, kissing her hand. "I'm so sorry I opened the blast shield."

He looked at both Peter and Claire when he apologized, but each one was surprisingly nonchalant. Then again, people usually weren't too stressed on their deathbeds, were they? Everything was almost over…worrying was a pastime for the living.

So Claire merely smiled and brightly replied, "This isn't your fault. You only agreed 'cause I smacked you."

She and Sylar chuckled grimly, but it died out when the memory of reality came crawling back. Claire sniffed and gripped his hand so stiffly that she almost cut off the circulation to his digits.

"You take of yourself, okay?" she insisted. Sylar nodded heartily as he wiped away the tears from his eyes. He'd do anything she'd say, anything _either _of them said.

Peter's face was engulfed in her hair while she said her last to Sylar, his back racking with silent sobs. He too was searching for air, his own impending death beginning to take its toll. Claire cupped his face and tilted his head up, so she could really look at him again.

"I love you so much." A large wet teardrop fell from Peter's iris and onto her porcelain skin, rolling naturally down her face. Peter automatically wiped it away.

He pressed his nose by hers, puling, and breathed back. "I know."

Claire grinned sadly and dragged her fingers from his jaw, down to his tender wound, touching it just enough to point it out. She said, oddly chipper, "It's okay. I think we'll be seeing each other in a few minutes."

It took Peter's shaky mind a second to figure out what she meant. _Oh yeah. Afterlife. _But Peter winced, remembering his last experience with heaven and hell, and he really hoped that what she said was precise. Claire was made for harps and cloud nine, but had he done enough to redeem himself from the tar pits of eternal torment?

Claire, ever the observant one, knew exactly what he was thinking. She smiled and brushed back his hair. "Don't worry. I'll put in a good word for you."

Peter was laughing and crying at the same time, and it turned into something more like whimpering as Claire's body began to spasm. Coughs rattled her chest, and she struggled for breath as those last few seconds were getting ripped from her.

She sputtered and cringed, coughing up more blood that spilled over her chin and Peter's fingers. He was shaking his head in denial, holding her closer to his chest as her pupils began to glaze.

"Claire? No…come back," Peter moaned into her ear. "Claire…I love you…come back…"

As soon as the endearment passed his lips, Claire went limp in his arms, a calm smile gracing her mouth. Peter cried her name a few more times as he held her still warm body to his, his own body beginning to collapse under the weight of his wounds.

Sylar's hand was over his mouth in horror as he watched Peter adjust Claire in his loving cradle. Peter was shuddering too, biting his lip to keep himself upright. His light sobs, on top of his already fragile body, threatened to break him in half even quicker. But if Peter had stayed alive this long, maybe he had a chance, maybe Sylar could save _him _at least…

Sylar put his hands on Peter's shoulders, resisting the urge to shake his brother into Earthly life.

"Not you too," he begged. "I can't deal with this, Peter. I can't watch you both…" he trailed off and looked away in heartbreak, unable to actually voice aloud what was happening before him. Loss of control wasn't something Sylar usually had a problem with, but now he was mentally breaking down to an atomic level. The misery saturating the air around them was something he couldn't comprehend, not quite yet. It was still a bad nightmare than he wanted Peter to wake him up from. Sylar never thought he'd _wish _for a morning with Peter pouring water on his ear to get him out of bed, but as he watched his brother's dying form…Sylar wished for _any _random moment with Peter and Claire, as long as they were all _happy, _and _alive_.

He hardly even noticed Peter reaching into his inside jacket pocket, hurriedly groping for a wad of papers there. Peter grabbed Sylar's wrist and shoved the letter into the amnesiac's fist. The livelier sibling looked at Peter with confusion.

"I've got it all laid out for you Sy," Peter vaguely explained, his hand still over Sylar's. Over his letter. "Go find Mom and Dad. Go find Niki too, and just…just live your life. Live the life I never let you have."

Sylar's head was shaking "no" in denial, and refusal, and disagreement. "What do you mean the life you never gave me?" he asked deeply, clutching onto Peter's arm for dear life. Confessions spilled out of his mouth faster then he could stop them, as Peters last few seconds ticked off on the grandfather clock of the cosmos. "You _gave me _a life. You pulled me out of the desert, and you told me who I am, and-,"

Peter sniffed, clearing his throat of the tears he shed for the young and lifeless girl in his arms. "Shhh. It doesn't matter. We did it, it's all finally over. No one's gonna have to run anymore."

Peter's body and voice were more laid back and relieved than Sylar had ever seen before. It was like Atlas's retirement day, the one time of release after a lifetime of holding the world on his shoulders.

Peter was _accepting _his death, something Sylar could hard believe, something he could hardly deal with. He responded to his brother's relaxation with fierce defiance, throwing his long arms around Peter and burying his face into the neck of his kin.

Sylar shook with disbelief. His voice was muffled in the lapel of Peter's tattered jacket. "Don't talk like this. You can keep yourself alive with my power, and we can get you home, we can find a healer, I'm sure we've met one at some point-,"

Peter shushed him and held him back, rocking him gently like a mother would do to her child. He was calm and reassuring, and there was almost _humor _in his voice as he replied, "Nah, it's too late, Sylar. I can't live with a giant hole in me." He chuckled at the absurdity but then turned serious. "Listen to me, though. Read that letter from top to bottom and do everything it says. Start over. Live a normal life. Don't waste it thinking about me."

Sylar's throat caught as he suddenly choked out for the first time, hardly audible, "I love you, Peter."

Peter pressed a chaste, brotherly kiss into Sylar's dark hair, near one of his temples. "Be good, man. I'll say hi to Claire for you."

"No, _please_…"

But Peter, like Claire had done minutes before, went wholly slack against Sylar. The lone brother pulled away and stared at Peter's expressionless face, looking as peaceful and free and _beautiful _as it ever did.

And Sylar' mind, which had been racing with terrible thoughts of dread for that entire day, was now totally blank.

Thus, he did what his instinct and love for the two people before him begged him to do. He gathered up Peter and Claire's limp forms in his arms, sat there in a short-circuited machine with Sophia Linderman's ashes fogging the air, and sobbed himself into fatigue.

The very last thing Sylar noticed before sleep claimed him was the shadow of Peter's corpse, on the ground, mortal and unmoving forevermore.

xxx

_Epilogue_

"_The Day of Atonement"_

_Coming Soon_

xxx

I know what you're thinking. And, yes, they're really dead (For THIS story at least winks). And before you say "God, what a sucky tragic ending. How can she have the heart to do that to those poor characters?" I'd like to offer an explanation. A situation that Peter and Claire were in was...very dangerous. If all three of my main characters got out alive, it would make Sophia seem weak. I really wanted to stress that yeah, she is BAD, people. So one person had to go just to make it realistic.

But I'll tell you the ORIGINAL ending: only Peter died, and Claire later found out she was pregnant. Her pregnancy bridged the gap between this one and the sequel very well, and everything flowed smoothly...but then I felt really bad about making one half of Paire live without the other, as well as the redundancy of Peter's death. My only option was to kill both, or kill neither, and I find something very romantic in the fact that they died together, and died_ for each other. _I also tried to give them really honorable, heroic deaths, and obviously, because of their sacrifice, the world is gonna be a much better plac. So it wasn't in vain )

As for Sylar...a lot of this story is about Sylar's rebirth as a person. He's kind of been in amnesiac limbo for the whole story, and though he wants to be good, Peter's been herding him around the whole time. The deaths of Peter and Claire really let Sylar _go _so he can find himself and start a real life, and go find his identity. With Niki :)

I hope that makes you feel a little bit better about this. And if it doesn't, then still, fret not. I've got a companion piece in the works that pretty much centers around Peter and Claire's tumultuous relationship, and I MAY write a full length sequel...and they MAY come back. But we'll see )

I've got an epilogue to this story too, (You didn't honestly think I'd leave it THIS grim did you?) and that'll come in the next week.


	24. The Day of Atonement

**Epilogue **

"**The Day of Atonement"**

_Sylar and Claire,_

_So here we are. If you're reading this, I'm…well, to be blunt…I'm probably dead. Either that or we're all on the couch together, laughing off this whole thing. And as much as I wish for the latter, more than likely, it's the first one. _

_But I don't regret writing this letter to you guys. Because no matter what happens, I want you to be taken care of. I've tried up till now to protect you both from the things I've had to do (and even more so with what I have to do tonight), and I really do hope I've succeeded with that. Sylar and Claire, you're both my__ world_ _and I don't know what I'd be without either of you. I __have__ to keep you safe._

_In addition to keeping you away from physical harm, I also wanted to set up some "insurance" in case…eh…this happened. Basically, I'm leaving all my money and possessions to you, to be split. That includes my and Sylar's savings account in Puerto Rico, and my trust fund, which I just unlocked (see Claire? No lie). After some rough estimates, I think it's about $500,000 for each of you (old Arthur Petrelli seemed to like me, at least in his will). I transferred all of that money to a local account in Sylar's name._

_Which brings me to my second point, because as far as you know, that's impossible. Sylar doesn't have enough personal info to open an account. Well, brother, look in Claire's vanity, and open the white envelope with the word "Gabriel" on it-_

Sylar reached behind Peter's letter and looked at the item in his other hand, the item his brother described. He would never tire of seeing the piece of cardboard he found by the letter's same instructions.

_I ended up going to the Hall of Records the morning I came back with lunch. I was looking for my _own _real birth certificate, rather then the fake one I got when the Petrellis adopted me. In my search, I found an entry right behind mine, logged under the same day and the same mother: yours, Sylar. The document you're probably holding in your hands right now is your birth certificate. And as it just so happens, we're twins, Sy. Or…should I call you Gabriel? Gabriel Zeke Monroe, son of Emily Fries-Monroe and an unknown dad (but I guess we can't everything, huh?). _

_If I had more time, I would've hunted down an obituary or something to help you on your quest to find them in person. But I guess I'm just gonna have to leave that job to you. I made a promise to you that I'd find your identity, Gabriel (how about Gabe? Do you like that?), and this was as close as I could get in the small window of time I had at my hands. You've always been the accepting one, so I doubt you'll be mad…but I still want to apologize. I should have done this a long, long time ago, and if I'd gotten up off my ass and straightened my head out sooner, I would have given you libraries of information. But I hope this is a nice start for you, at least, and I'm begging you: go look up yearbooks, Wikipedia, newspaper articles, anything you can find on Emily. She could still be out there somewhere, along with dear old Dad. With them, you can finally have a real __**family. **_

_Before you say it's too much to take, I want to remind you how much I owe you. All I can do at this point is say how incredibly sorry I am for everything I've done to you in the past three years. You've shown me nothing but compassion, and I abused that. I wish I could go back and do it over, to treat you better, to leave on better terms with Claire...but as Hiro tells me all the time, you can't change the past. _

_However, the future's still up for grabs, so go out there and find our parents. Have Christmas dinners. Move into a nice house with Niki and paint your fence white. Maybe have a kid (and for the record, I can totally imagine you as a dad. Then I could be a __**real**__ uncle for once!). If all goes well, you won't have to worry about being 'Sylar the criminal' anymore. You can just be Gabriel Monroe, some guy from Nevada with a golden retriever and a good head on his shoulders. _

_And for Claire…there's a few things I want to say to you too. _

Sylar averted his eyes and scrolled downward, skipping Peter's sentiments to Claire. Every time the lone twin had read Peter's last will and testament, he had showed the same courtesy. As much as Sylar longed to soak in Peter's page worth of words to his last love, he had far too much etiquette to intrude on Peter and Claire's privacy.

Finally, he reached the closing paragraph.

_The only thing I've ever wanted was to be a hero. I thought I could just __**do **__something, like pull a cat out a tree, and that would do it. But you've taught me that it's more than that. I'm never truly a hero until everyone can depend on me, remember me, trust me. And I hope that over the past few days, I've earned that from both of you. To be a hero in your eyes is enough to satisfy me for a long, long time. _

_I love you both. Take care. _

-Peter

Sylar set the letter down on his lap and looked up, catching his reflection in Claire's vanity mirror.

Peter and Claire's funeral started in an hour, and he still looked like hell on a Bunsen burner. There were heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes, and even the sharp suit he was wearing didn't make him appear refined. His posture was slumped, his lips were pale, and even Sylar himself could see the pining in his gaze as his likeness stared back at him.

He was in the finest clothes he owned, but Sylar wished for finer. That's what Peter and Claire deserved. They should have been having a gala, not a small family funeral with empty caskets and blink-and-you'll-miss-it headstones. They should have been buried whole and peaceful, in good dress, but both of them had been cremated into fine grey particles of sand instead, placed in separate urns. Sylar was intended to keep Peter's remains while Nathan would keep Claire.

The decision to cremate his friends was a tough but necessary choice for Sylar. He always hated the thought of all those organs and pretty eyes and soft hairs being turned to dust…but with Peter and Claire's shared regeneration, it would have been frightening not too. Though the couple was most likely dead and dead forever, had they remained in whole human form, there was a slight chance that they could awake in their coffins, buried alive, with no one to hear them. When Sylar heard that theory, he practically threw Peter into the furnace himself, not even wanting to consider such a ghastly tragedy.

He folded up the letter and pocketed it. Sylar had kept Peter's words on his person since he found the letter, one week before, the morning after Peter and Claire's deaths. It had been without doubt the longest seven days of Sylar's life, even though he had nothing much to show for it. He simply had hundreds of hours of lying in bed and living in Dreamland, where they were still a happy trio, on another nice road trip. The only person able to arouse Sylar from his sheets, enough to actually eat something and take a shower, was Niki Sanders.

The single mother had come to D.C. as soon as Micah's ankle bracelet was deactivated, about three days before. Sylar was using Claire's mansion as a fortress until then, living out of the deceased woman's old bedroom. He tried sleeping in a guest bed for the first night, but hated it. Claire's pillows and covers smelled like _them, _both of _them, _and it was the sole thing that could comfort Sylar until Niki arrived.

The woman from Vegas abruptly entered his room then, with gold earrings, scuffed high heels, and a sweet but solemn expression. Sylar didn't even realize she was there until the mattress groaned when she sat down beside him.

Her hand was over his in an instant. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "He was too young."

"They both were," Sylar replied hoarsely. "But I guess no older than me, right?" He pulled the letter out of his pocket and tapped both thumbs on it. "Peter was my twin."

Niki squeezed his arm and rested her head in the crook of his neck. It wasn't much of a pass…just kind of comforting.

Sylar swallowed. "One of the last things he ever told me was to start a better life. His letter says it too. I don't understand why he thought so hard that the life he gave me wasn't good enough."

"He just wanted what's best for you," Niki softly assured him.

"I know. I'm just not sure how to…," he frowned, "…start over."

"You go out there and do it," the woman told him plainly. "You go out there and you _live_."

xxx

Peter and Claire were not buried, nor were their ashes spread, but nevertheless, a small service was given. There were less than a dozen people standing round their twin ivory crosses, two makeshift headstones sunken deep into the dirt. Among the cluster of visitors was a teary-eyed but stoic Nathan Petrelli; his wife Heidi and two tweenaged sons; Mohinder Suresh with his arm around a sobbing Molly Walker; Micah Sanders and his mother Niki, who had her hand firmly entwined with Gabriel Monroe's; a preacher-for-hire who stood behind all of them, waiting for his role to arrive; and lastly, Hiro Nakamura.

Both Hiro and Micah had undergone very noticeable changes in the past week. As soon as Sophia was announced dead by Sylar, Nathan went into action immediately, shoving bills towards Congress to repeal all the Mutant Prohibition laws. Of course, with the slowness of their government, it would take _months_ of paperwork and debates to finally set everything right. But in the meantime, Nathan could still order for all detainment centers to be permanently shut down, and for every bar-coded person to be granted temporary amnesty until laws were put in place to protect them. This included Micah, whose ankle bracelet had been removed by the president himself, as the first act of a new, brighter age.

As for Hiro, the samurai had abandoned his kung fu uniform, arriving at Peter and Claire's funeral with a simple dress shirt and slacks. Long gone was the sleek ponytail too; Hiro now had a short spiky cut right out of an anime cartoon, with black hair that hung over one of his eyes in an almost dangerous style.

The only thing that wasn't quite right yet was Sylar and Hiro's criminal records. Nathan and Peter made a deal in Marty's office: if Peter kept Claire safe, Nathan would clear Sylar and Hiro's rap sheets. But Peter hadn't kept his promise. He had let Claire go on the mission, and because of that, because of that _lie…_

Nathan sniffed quietly, staring at his little girl's name etched across the cross's white marble. Because of that lie, _this _had happened. His daughter, the light of his life, was burnt up into a million pieces of grain and then poured into the urn in his arms. And for that, Nathan owned Peter _nothing. _

"I'd like to say something," Sylar suddenly announced, glancing around at his comrades. They all stared upon him expectantly, and he took a step forward, after passing Peter's urn to Niki.

"I know this is a really terrible thing," he began, closing his eyes. "Peter was my brother. My twin brother, actually. So now that he's gone, I…I feel like I'm missing a part of me." He wiped his nose on his sleeve and struggled to continue the eulogy with a composed face. "As for Claire, she…goodness, Claire was unlike any other woman I'd ever met. Strong, independent, kind. She was perfect for my brother, you know. She was the only one that could keep him straight."

This evoked a small, downhearted chuckle from the others, and even Sylar smiled a bit.

"They didn't deserve to have this happen to them," he continued. "But I want you all to know that I was there, and that I saw…I saw that they wanted to go this way. Peter tried a dozen times to get Claire to stay behind, but she wanted to be with him. She knew what could happen to her, and she wasn't afraid. Peter, well…Peter acted like he wasn't afraid of anything, when he was actually terrified. And I think that just makes him all the more brave.

"So essentially…instead of being upset that they're gone, I believe we should be celebrating what they gave us. Peter and Claire _died _to give us the right stand out here. To not have to worry about being caught by the police just because we're different. They _died _to get that ankle bracelet off Micah!" Sylar's voice cracked and his throat was starting to close up in emotion. "I can't speak for Claire, but I know that all Peter ever wanted was just to set us free, no matter what it took out of him. So wherever he is right now, he's probably got his feet up on the table and that crooked grin on his face, cause he knows he did a good job."

Sylar hesitated for a long moment, listening to the snivels and soft whimpers of his fellowmen. And with his hand clenched behind his back to pull together a catapult of strength, he finally concluded his speech.

"_Peter was my best friend_," he choked out. "And I couldn't ask for a better companion than Claire Bennet. I'm not a religious man, but I have to admit that I believe the rumor now: _He_ only takes the good ones." 

Sylar didn't try to cover his crying, for everyone around him was perched on the same bough of misery. Nathan's eyes welled with unshed tears, and he let none fall, instead choosing to keep his face in a grim frown. Molly's gentle weeping was muffled by Mohinder's wildly colored dress shirt, and Micah hugged her from behind. The boy's chin rested on her shoulder as he too let the tears come, albeit silently.

After Sylar stepped back into his huddle of acquaintances, the preacher started to lead them in prayer and vague life stories about both Peter and Claire, which lacked much heart or detail. Eventually, the cemetery's church bells rang three times off in the distance, and the crowd began to dissolve.

Sylar was the last one left standing at his friend's graves, after everyone else had bowed their heads and gone back towards their cars. He could have been mistaken for a wax figure- he made not a move as he tightly held onto Peter's urn, reading the epitaphs on Peter and Claire's graves over and over until they were etched into his brain.

_Michael Peter Petrelli_

_December 23, 1979-April 24, 2013_

_Brother and Beloved Hero._

and

_Claire Nicole Bennet_

_April 2, 1990-April 24,2013_

_Our Bravest Daughter_

A small arm linked with Sylar's from his left side, the woman's pale skin lightly touching Peter's urn. Niki sniffed and cocked her head towards the parking lot, cause they were blocking traffic and the whole damn motorcade was gonna be a mess in a second if they didn't get down there.

"Don't worry, sweetie. They'll always be here," she whispered gently to him.

"And here," Sylar added emotionlessly, lifting Peter's ashes a little for emphasis.

He turned towards the parking lot with a blank face, much like the white theater mask that always used to freak Micah out when he was a child. As the pair crossed the curb, Niki spotted Micah himself over by an oak tree. Her son had Molly in his arms, sobbing into his collar, and he was kissing the girl's forehead occasionally. The widowed Miss Sanders sighed slightly in relief at her son's care, and thanked whatever spirits were up above that Micah had still turned out alright after all he'd been through.

"Sylar," called a sudden and husky voice from behind them. As much as Gabriel wanted to keep on walking, he stopped, turned, and answered Nathan Petrelli.

"Yes?"

Nathan was carrying Claire's urn, his face tight and vacant. Sylar got the impression that even if Nathan's hands were free, he would _not _have offered a cordial handshake.

"Was it true? Did Pete really try to stop Claire from going?"

Sylar's brow furrowed and he nodded, with all honesty. "Yes. Peter wanted both us to leave as soon as we met up, but Claire fought past it. She was very brave…but always very stubborn."

Nathan nearly smiled. "That she was," he remarked, finally with some trace of warmth. But then his eyes crinkled once again. "And I want to remember her in that way. Not like this." He glanced towards the marble jug in his hands, before holding out Claire's urn to Sylar.

"W-what?"

"Please keep her safe for me."

Sylar gaped. "You're her father and you don't even want-,"

"Yes, I'm her father," Nathan interrupted tensely. "And what father can bear to see their child like this?"

The amnesiac had no answer for that. He'd obviously never had a child, or anything close to one, and he couldn't even pretend to understand what it was like to lose one. Would it be normal for Nathan to want to keep his daughter's ashes, or was it natural for the President to banish reminders of her death…to try to only remember her as she was in life?

Sylar handed Peter's ashes to Niki and then gently took Claire's urn off Nathan's hands. The girl's vase of remains was somewhat smaller and lighter than Peter's, just like she had been in life.

One of Nathan's eyebrows quirked up and he added, without a trace of sarcasm, "Besides…who are we to keep Peter and Claire apart?"

Sylar's only response was a bewildered nod as he hugged Claire closer to his chest.

xxx

**ONE MONTH LATER.**

"Hey! Where do you want this box to go?"

Niki Sanders threw herself into Sylar's apartment with an awkward cardboard box in her arms. The man she called out for immediately came to her aid, lifting it out of her unstable clutch. However, Sylar groaned as soon as the weight was shifted to him- all sixty pounds of it.

"You made it look light," he coughed, setting down the box on the closest surface available. "I forgot about your strength."

Niki put a hand on his back, smirking sympathetically. "Maybe I should bring in the boxes from now on."

Sylar stood up straight and rolled his shoulders, attempting to regain some of his dignity. "Oh yes. the neighbors would find that perfectly normal," he commented wryly. He gestured to her and Micah's apartment, which they could see on the other side of the hall. "Besides. You've got your own moving in to do."

"Oh, please. I've got a son to do that for me," Niki winked. She brushed past him, headed towards the box she'd just brought in. "I still wonder what's in here, though. Do you think it was Peter's dumbbell set?"

Sylar's demeanor became quieter. "No. I donated most of his more…unsentimental belongings."

Niki smiled at Sylar's usual _elegance_ with words as she looked around for a pair of scissors. But before she could try to cut the tape off, Sylar was already ahead of her, drawing an imaginary line across the box's cover. The tape ripped cleanly as his finger traced the air, until the flaps hung loosely over the package's contents.

Even that was enough to show Sylar what mysteries lurked in the crate's glum depths. All he could see from his angle was a small strip of shining gold lining, and he _knew._

Sylar crouched to his knees and gingerly brushed back a layer of packing peanuts. Niki leaned over his shoulder without a sound, watching in anticipation as he pulled an intricate blue marble urn out of the box.

"Oh…" the single mother gasped, hardly audible. She sat down next to her friend and pulled out the _other _urn from the cardboard. Soon, the ashes of Claire Bennet were in her hands, sealed with opal stone.

"What do I do with these?" Sylar glumly stated. His fingers traced the gold patterns on Peter's urn, leaving small smears all across the shining metal.

"Have you thought about spreading their ashes?" Niki suggested helpfully. "Maybe out there in the bay?"

She looked over to the large window in Sylar's living room, to the beautiful glittering body of water beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. It sounded like a good idea to Sylar's ears, but not to his heart.

He held Peter closer. "No, I…I don't really want to get rid of them. It'd be like throwing them away, wouldn't it?"

Niki's eyes were downcast as she instantly regretted her words. She set Claire's urn down next to Sylar's lap as a sign of her acceptance, before standing up and brushing imaginary dirt off of her jeans.

"You know…" Niki said awkwardly. "I think you were right. I should probably go help Micah with our boxes. I know if it's just him in there, it'll be Christmas by the time we get everything unpacked."

Sylar nodded mechanically and stared after her as she headed towards his open front door. However, as soon as Niki was about to cross the threshold between his apartment and the hallway-

"Wait!" Sylar stopped her with a hopeful lilt in his voice. Niki curved to face him, appearing innocent with anticipation.

"Can you come over later, maybe?" It might have been his imagination, but he sort of felt Peter's 'mojo' flowing from the urn and into his body.

Niki's lip curled up vaguely, revealing white teeth. "Okay."

She exited the room and headed over to her own abode, closing both their doors behind her. Sylar briefly heard her yell Micah's name before all other sounds were soon muffled by wood and concrete.

Sylar's shoulders slumped once everything went quiet and he was truly alone once more. _Well, _he amended, _not _really _alone. _He patted the tops of his friends' urns. _I've still got Peter and Claire. _

But where to put them? He was in no way going to spread them or dispense them. Call Sylar attached, or perhaps even a bit obsessive, but someone would have to cross his own dead body before dumping the remains of his friends somewhere.

What about the nightstand? Too creepy. The end table? Would get in the way. The bathroom?

Sylar shuddered, wondering how in God's name he had even _thought _of that option.

After minutes of scanning his house and listless pacing, the solitary brother nearly gave up on his search for a resting place. That is, until he spotted…

Geez._ It_ was tradition, really, and Sylar wasn't sure how he had failed to think of_ it_ before. He could set them on _the mantelpiece_, side-by-side, to watch over him and his hearth for as long as he should live. It was a high enough spot for them to rest in peace and not be knocked over by clumsy elbows or sneezes at the speed of sound. And yet, it was low enough so Sylar could still look upon them from time to time, and remember why he was here.

It was only right then, when the sky of Frisco was blue, everyone was free, and he set Peter and Claire's ashes perfectly straight upon the broad mantelpieces, he did realize whycause now, _he's really living. _

And not just him: everyone on this planet was handed their lives back when Peter and Claire sacrificed theirs. As soon as the Lindermans crumbled, Nathan was free to rule in his own way, repealing those horrible laws.

Sylar sighed slightly to himself and looked upon Peter's urn, which rested right next to Claire's. He stroked it affectionately before declaring, "Congratulations, kiddo. You finally saved the world."

xxx

A couple hours after Niki left and Sylar finished his moving in, the shrill noise of a doorbell buzzed throughout his apartment. The door was unlocked and Sylar knew who it was, but being such a gentleman, he went to the door and opened it himself.

As expected, Niki Sanders was standing shyly in the hallway, her blonde hair styled and her slender body draped with a slinky, white silk dress. Sylar, ever the observant man, couldn't help but notice her particularly well-curled hair and dark lipstick. His stomach squirmed pleasurably, and he couldn't help the goofy grin that started spreading across his face.

Niki was equally as coy, her manner much like a cross between 'seductive temptress' and 'embarrassed schoolgirl.' She took a step forward, her hand on Sylar's door, and pushed her way into his apartment a little bit farther.

"Hey," she said. Sylar felt his face grow warm, among other places. But instead of letting that keep him down like usual, he used the extra blood as fuel. It was yet another turn in Sylar's character, a result from his W.W.P.D list: _What would Peter do? _

"G'day," Sylar said back effortlessly. He slid his hands into his pockets and leaned some against the wall, making his lanky frame seem smaller and more approachable for Niki.

The ball was in the blonde's court now. "Micah and I are almost unpacked," she informed him breezily. "You want to go get some dinner after we're done?"

Sylar was all smiles, but he still kept some aura of mystery about him. That, he had observed, was Peter's greatest tool: an enigmatic personality.

"That would be great," Sylar answered. "You and Micah can come over whenever you're ready. It's not like I have anywhere to be."

Niki's eyes left his for a second, prompting Sylar to frown.

"Is something wrong?" he said uneasily.

Niki raised her head again, studiously avoiding his gaze. Then, she laughed a little and covered her eyes, self-conscious, and the distress in Sylar's heart floated away.

"I was hoping it would just be the two of us," the single mother finally blurted out. She looked upon him keenly, hopefully, and ten other different emotions that Sylar didn't want to crush.

His eyebrows may have risen in surprise, but there was definitely no reason for Niki to beanxious about his response. "Like a…date?"

Niki grinned her embarrassment off, feeling a bit bolder once she saw Sylar light up like a skyscraper in the New York. "Yeah, dates. I think I might remember what those are."

Sylar laughed for a few moments, and once the awkwardness was brushed aside as easily as a cloud of helium, he gratefully accepted her offer.

Until something occurred to him. "But what about Micah? Will he be okay here alone?"

Niki's face went weird, and her cheeks pinkened. Her heart warmed at his concern for her son, but all she said was, "Yeah…he'll be fine."

Her face was positively glowing, and Sylar sheepishly cocked his head at her. "What's that look for?"

Niki smirked to herself, all sly and inside-joke. And as Sylar predicted, she merely disappointed him with a cheerful "Oh, nothing" and a wink over her shoulder, before heading back to her apartment.

Sylar shone back and closed the door with a gentle click, before slumping against it with good nature. He had a full view of his window from his angle, the large glass sheet that divided the colors of San Francisco from his bare, unlived-in apartment.

There were people walking around down there, thousands of people laughing, and signing, and breathing oxygen and walking on land that was for everyone to share. The city by the bay was on fire with life and prosperity, the horizon twinkling with the dawn of a new era. _They did this, _Sylar beamed silently. _Peter and Claire made the sun rise._

And though half of his heart still ached, he was forced to accept that if they gave their lives for his, he was going to live it well too. To force his limbs to work in the mornings and to starve himself into depression was something neither Claire nor Peter would have wanted. They would have wanted Sylar down there in the crowd, with the songs, and the jokes, and the breathing, and the living.

They wanted to keep their live friend _live._

As a final measure to clean the slate of society, the moon wiped over the sun in a partial eclipse which shined over the water. Just like on the day a certain man in a dark coat had visited a certain amnesiac in the Arizona desert.

And just like _that time_, the light at the end of the tunnel was finally reignited, and Sylar's life became anew.

xxx

_Fin_

**  
A/N Well, I honestly don't know what to say more than that. Thank you to everyone who ever, ever reviewed. Every single piece of feedback means oh-so much to me, and only fuels me more.**

I'll also take this as a chance to let out a piece of news. I WILL be writing a full length sequel to this story, entitled Scourge. A tentative release date for that is June 2. But even though that seems like a long way away, don't fret too much ) I'm gonna start a mini-fic called The Mantlepiece Chronicles, which is a companion piece to this, starting March 17 and going for nine straight weeks after that. So you'll have something to tide you over on the wait )

Lastly, I have a bit of a gift for you all here. I have made not one, but THREE fanmixes made for you based on the fic, which will be posted on my LJ community, astromechfic sometime this week (I'm working on posting it right now but it's taking FOREVER to upload, so this may take a bit. Apologies!)

Thanks again for reading. I love you all!

-Michelle


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